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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  HONNOLD  LIBRARY 


THE  VAN  DYKE  BOOK 


THE  VAN  DYKE  BOOK 

SELECTED   FROM  THE  WRITINGS   OF 
HENRY   VAN   DYKE 


BY 

EDWIN   MIMS,   PH.D. 

PROFESSOR   OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE   IN 
TRINITY  COLLEGE,    DURHAM,    N.    C. 


WITH   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  BY 

BROOKE  VAN  DYKE 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  FOOT-PATH  TO   PEACE 

To  be  glad  of  life,  because  it  gives  you  the  chance  to  love  and 
to  work  and  to  play  and  to  look  up  at  the  stars ;  to  be  contented 
with  your  possessions,  but  not  satisfied  with  yourself  until  you 
have  made  the  best  of  them ;  to  despise  nothing  in  the  world 
except  falsehood  and  meanness,  and  to  fear  nothing  except  cow 
ardice  ;  to  be  governed  by  your  admirations  rather  than  by  your 
disgusts ;  to  covet  nothing  that  is  your  neighbor's  except  his 
kindness  of  heart  and  gentleness  of  manners ;  to  think  seldom  of 
your  enemies,  often  of  your  friends,  and  every  day  of  Christ ;  and  to 
spend  as  much  time  as  you  can,  with  body  and  with  spirit,  in  God's 
out-of-doors — these  are  little  guide-posts  on  the  foot-path  to  peace. 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION 


PART  I—  MEMORIES  AND   PICTURES 
A  BOY  AND  A  ROD    .        .        .  ...        .        -3 

LITTLE  RIVERS  .        .        ...        .        .        .  .      .        •     13 

WOOD  MAGIC     .....        ....     22 

CAMPING  OUT    .         .         .        .        .        .        .-       .        .26 

The  Guides  .         .         .......     26 

Running  the  Rapids     .         .         .         ...         .29 

The  Tent      ...         ......     33 

A  Little  Fishing  ........     36 

Morning  and  Evening  .         .         .         .         .         .         .40 

THE  OPEN  FIRE         ...  .        .        .        .        -44 

Lighting  Up         .         .         .  •        .         .        •       .  •     44 

The  Camp  Fire    .         .         .  .    .....     47 

The  Little  Friendship  Fire  .  .....     5° 

Altars  of  Remembrance        .  .         .         .         .         •     52 

PART   II—  SONGS   OUT-OF-DOORS 
BIRDS  IN  THE  MORNING    .......     61 

THE  SONG-SPARROW  ........     63 

THE  MARYLAND  YELLOW  THROAT    ...        .        .        .67 

v 


vi  Contents 

PAGE 

THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL  67 

THE  MOCKING-BIRD 69 

THE  ANGLER'S  WISH  IN  TOWN 70 

THE  VEERY      .........  72 

THE  RUBY-CROWNED  KINGLET 74 

WINGS  OF  A  DOVE 77 

PART  III— STORIES 

A  FRIEND  OF  JUSTICE 81 

THE  THRILLING  MOMENT 92 

THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  LIGHT 101 

A  HANDFUL  OF  CLAY 124 

THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS-TREE 128 

PART   IV— BITS    OF    BLUE-SKY   PHILOSOPHY 

THE  ARROW 151 

FOUR  THINGS 151 

LIFE 151 

WORK 152 

THE  GENTLE  LIFE 153 

STORY     OF     THE     AUTHOR'S     LIFE      FROM     A 

CHILD'S    POINT    OF    VIEW        .         .         .         .159 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PORTRAIT  OF  HENRY  VAN  DYKE         .       .       Frontispiece 


FACING 
FACE 


DOWN  THE  PERIBONCA       ......  30 

"THE  LITTLE  FRIENDSHIP  FIRE"    .        .       .       .  46 

THE  SITUATION  WAS  NOT  WITHOUT  ITS  EMBAR 
RASSMENTS     .        .       .        .       .        .       .        .  98 

"I  AM  THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  LIGHT"       .       .        .  116 

THE  FIELDS  AROUND  LAY  BARE  TO  THE  MOON     .  132 


INTRODUCTION 

To  the  already  large  number  of  mature  and  cul 
tivated  readers  who  have  found  in  Dr.  Henry  van 
Dyke  a  friend  and  helper,  it  is  hoped  that  many  chil 
dren  may  now  be  added.  From  his  writings  such 
essays,  poems,  and  stories  have  been  selected  as  may 
lead  younger  people  into  a  genuine  appreciation  of 
nature  and  of  human  life  as  it  is  lived  out-of-doors. 
From  the  reading  of  such  selections  must  inevitably 
come  a  wholesome  and  manly  view  of  life. 

In  Miss  van  Dyke's  interesting  sketch  at  the  end 
of  this  volume  she  says  that  she  and  her  brothers, 
in  their  younger  days,  often  wished  that  their  father 
might  write  a  book  for  children.  She  has  made 
clear,  what  a  careful  reader  had  felt  before,  that 
many  of  the  stories,  incidents,  and  poems  here  given 
have  grown  out  of  his  relations  to  children.  The 
memories  of  their  early  companionship,  so  tenderly 
portrayed  by  the  daughter,  are  no  less  sacred  to  the 
father.  To  the  Eden  of  his  own  childhood  he  has 
often  turned  in  his  imagination  and  been  welcomed 
by  the  stranger-child — "the  little  child  he  used  to 
be."  These  memories  have  been  quickened  by  asso 
ciation  with  his  children,  who  have  been  partners 
with  him  in  much  of  his  work. 

A  child  should  therefore  find  in  these  writings  a 


X  Introduction 

manifestation  of  the  childlike  mind,  thoroughly  at 
home  in  the  woods  and  by  the  little  rivers.  It 
should  be  an  inspiration,  too,  to  realize  that  these 
selections  are  written  by  a  man  in  the  very  prime 
of  life — one  of  the  best  beloved  and  most  useful  of 
contemporary  writers.  The  facts  of  his  life  may  be 
obtained  in  the  sketch  already  referred  to.  But 
there  should  come  to  even  the  younger  readers  of 
these  selections  a  sense  of  the  personality  of  the  au 
thor.  His  personality  may  be  felt  in  everything  he 
has  written — like  Charles  Lamb  and  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  he  has  written  without  reserve,  and  yet 
without  egotism,  of  himself,  his  family,  his  friends, 
his  likes  and  dislikes.  When  he  does  not  write 
of  himself,  there  is  a  light  touch  in  his  work  that 
is  the  most  personal  element  in  style. 

Even  in  a  book  of  selections  like  this  something 
of  the  range  of  the  writer's  work  may  be  seen.  It 
is  rare  that  a  man  does  such  uniformly  good  work 
in  fiction,  poetry,  and  essay  writing.  There  are 
contemporaries  who  have  surpassed  him  in  one  or 
the  other  of  these  lines,  but  none  who  has  shown 
the  same  versatility  or  worked  with  greater  atten 
tion  to  the  ideals  of  his  art.  His  versatility  as  a 
man  of  letters  is,  however,  but  one  feature  of  his 
many-sided  life.  He  is  widely  known  as  a  fisher 
man,  easily  holding  among  his  contemporaries  the 
place  of  Izaak  Walton.  He  has  his  place  in  the  col 
lege  and  university  world — as  a  teacher  of  literature 
at  Princeton  and  as  a  preacher  at  most,  if  not  all,  the 
leading  colleges  in  America.  He  is  a  preacher  of 


Introduction  xi 

decided  power,  and  as  Moderator  of  the  Presby 
terian  Church  at  a  critical  time  in  its  history  did 
much  to  promote  the  cause  of  unity  in  all  branches 
of  the  church,  as  well  as  to  bring  about  a  more  rea 
sonable  statement  of  creed.  Personally  he  is  a  man 
of  attractive  manners  and  of  brilliant  conversational 
powers.  His  various  accomplishments  and  achieve 
ments  in  diverse  fields  were  finely  portrayed  in  a 
recent  sonnet  by  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  at  a 
dinner  given  to  Dr.  van  Dyke  by  the  Lotus  Club 
of  New  York  City: 

Health  to  the  poet,  scholar,  wit,  divine, 
In  whom  sweet  Nature  would  all  gifts  combine 
To  make  us  hang  upon  his  lips  and  say — 
The  Admirable  Crichton  of  our  day, 
Whose  quill  and  lute  and  voice  are  weapons  shear 
That  quite  outvie  that  gallant's  swift  rapier — 
Whose  dulcet  English,  from  its  fount  that  wells 
This  night,  the  Scotsman's  dozen  tongues  excels  ! 
Long  may  he  live,  to  wear  the  cloistral  gown, 
Or  from  his  Little  Rivers  bring  to  town — 
From  every  haunt  where  purling  waters  flow — 
The  mystic  flower  that  only  votaries  know  ! 
Wouldst  view  what  Nature's  portraiture  is  like  ? 
The  Dame  herself  hath  sat  to  this  van  Dyke. 

His  success  in  so  many  fields  may  be  explained  in 
part  by  his  ability  to  "toil  terribly"  and  his  power  of 
insight  that  enables  him  to  go  straight  to  the  mark, 
whether  he  is  preaching  a  sermon  or  writing  a  poem 
or  story.  But  the  full  explanation  may  be  seen  in 
his  richly  developed  personality.  As  his  friend,  Mr, 


xii  Introduction 

Hamilton  W.  Mabie,  says,  he  lives  in  all  his  facul 
ties.  He  loves  nature,  but  is  no  solitary,  for  he  is 
at  his  best  with  men  and  women ;  few  men  have 
finer  appreciation  of  literature,  but  he  knows  that 
it  is  but  secondary  to  life;  he  has  a  certain  delicate 
humor,  but  it  is  mingled  with  an  equally  delicate 
pathos;  he  is  thoroughly  at  home  in  the  world  of 
music  and  art,  and  all  that  belongs  to  a  refined  civ 
ilization,  but  there  is  "a  wilding  flavor  in  his  blood" 
which  all  the  civilization  of  the  world  will  not 
eradicate.  Crowning  all  his  qualities  is  a  vital  faith 
in  the  Christian  religion,  which  gives  unity  to  his 
character  and  his  work.  And  there  is,  notwithstand 
ing  the  variety  of  his  work,  an  essential  unity  under 
lying  it.  When  a  pastor  he  often  substituted  a 
story  for  a  sermon,  as  "The  Toiling  of  Felix"  or 
the  story  of  "The  Other  Wise  Man."  As  a  story- 
writer  he  combines  with  local  color  an  inner  light — 
a  desire  to  get  at  the  mysterious  element  of  the 
human  soul — "the  very  pulse  of  the  machine."  The 
stories  in  his  latest  volume  have  as  a  motive  the 
inward  search  for  happiness  symbolized  by  the  Blue 
Flower — the  token  of  the  infinite  in  man.  As  a 
teacher  and  critic  of  literature  he  has  emphasized 
the  spiritual  quality  thereof  more  than  any  technical 
points  involved.  In  all  his  poetry,  as  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley  suggests  in  a  recent  sonnet,  there  may 
be  heard  the  anthem  of  a  devout  soul. 

What,  it  may  be  asked,  is  the  attitude  of  such  a 
man  to  the  age  in  which  he  lives?  He  has  in  a 
way  appropriated  the  full  spirit  of  his  age,  or  at 


Introduction  xiii 

least  he  has  not  railed  against  it.  And  yet  he  has 
been  strong  in  his  insistence  upon  certain  dangers 
inherent  in  the  American  life  of  the  present  -time. 
In  a  time  of  hurry  and  confusion  he  has  set  forth 
the  ideal  of  the  gentle  life.  In  an  age  of  industrial 
ism  he  has  been  a  sentinel  of  the  spirit.  The  ten 
dency  of  literature  in  his  time  has  been  toward  a 
certain  realism;  he  has  kept  alive  the  spirit  of  a 
healthy  idealism.  Living  in  an  academic  commu 
nity  during  recent  years,  and  all  his  life  interested 
in  colleges  and  universities,  he  has  pointed  out  the 
danger  of  extreme  specialization,  finding  that  for 
himself  and  for  others  there  is  a  necessity  for  the 
abundant  life,  rather  than  one  confined  within  nar 
row  limits.  At  a  time  when,  as  Mr.  Bliss  Perry 
has  recently  pointed  out,  there  is  a  danger  of  indif- 
ferentism  among  men  of  culture  and  wealth,  he  has 
written  with  enthusiasm  of  nature,  literature,  and 
life.  To  men  resting  in  "the  crude  unregenerate 
strength  of  intellect"  he  has  told  the  need  of  the 
simple  human  heart.  To  the  church,  insisting  over 
much  on  dogma,  he  has  uttered  a  protest  in  behalf 
of  a  spiritual  life  that  transcends  dogma,  while  to 
men  of  doubt  he  has  preached  the  gospel  of  a  divine 
personality. 

The  full  significance  of  the  preceding  paragraph 
cannot  be  felt  by  children,  but  even  without  this 
realization  of  what  Dr.  van  Dyke  has  meant  to  the 
age  in  which  he  has  lived,  they  should  be  able  to 
absorb  much  of  his  spirit.  After  all,  a  better  intro 
duction  cannot  be  given  to  this  book  than  his  own 


xiv  Introduction 

words  at  the  end  of  his  first  chapter  in  "Little 
Rivers" : 

"You  shall  not  be  deceived  in  this  book.  It  is 
nothing  but  a  handful  of  rustic  variations  on  the 
old  tune  of  'Rest  and  be  thankful,'  a  record  of  un 
conventional  travel,  a  pilgrim's  scrip  with  a  few  bits 
of  blue-sky  philosophy  in  it.  There  is,  so  far  as  I 
know,  very  little  useful  information  and  absolutely 
no  criticism  of  the  universe  to  be  found  in  this  vol 
ume.  So  if  you  are  what  Izaak  Walton  calls  'a 
severe,  sour-complexioned  man/  you  would  better 
carry  it  back  to  the  bookseller,  and  get  your  money 
again,  if  he  will  give  it  to  you,  and  go  your  way 
rejoicing  after  your  own  melancholy  fashion. 

"But  if  you  care  for  plain  pleasures,  and  infor 
mal  company,  and  friendly  observations  on  men  and 
things  (and  a  few  true  fish-stories),  then  perhaps 
you  may  find  something  here  not  unworthy  your 
perusal.  And  so  I  wish  that  your  winter  fire  may 
burn  clear  and  bright  while  you  read  these  pages ; 
and  that  the  summer  days  may  be  fair,  and  the  fish 
may  rise  merrily  to  your  fly,  whenever  you  follow 
one  of  these  little  rivers." 

EDWIN  MIMS. 


PART   I 
MEMORIES    AND    PICTURES 


A   BOY   AND   A   ROD 


STRANGELY  enough,  you  cannot  recall  the  boy 
himself  at  all  distinctly.  There  is  only  the  faintest 
image  of  him  on  the  endless  roll  of  films  that  has 
been  wound  through  your  mental  camera;  and  in 
the  very  spots  where  his  small  figure  should  appear, 
it  seems  as  if  the  pictures  were  always  light-struck. 
Just  a  blur,  and  the  dim  outline  of  a  new  cap,  or  a 
well-beloved  jacket  with  extra  pockets,  or  a  much- 
hated  pair  of  copper-toed  shoes — that  is  all  you 
can  see. 

But  the  people  that  the  boy  saw,  the  companions 
who  helped  or  hindered  him  in  his  adventures,  the 
sublime  and  marvellous  scenes  among  the  Catskills 
and  the  Adirondacks  and  the  Green  Mountains,  in 
the  midst  of  which  he  lived  and  moved  and  had  his 
summer  holidays — all  these  stand  out  sharp  and 
clear,  as  the  "Bab  Ballads"  say, 

"  Photographically  lined 
On  the  tablets  of  your  mind." 

And  most  vivid  do  these  scenes  and  people  become 
when  the  vague  and  irrecoverable  boy  who  walks 
among  them  carries  a  rod  over  his  shoulder,  and 

3 


4  Memories  and  Pictures 

you  detect  the  soft  bulginess  of  wet  fish  about  his 
clothing,  and  perhaps  the  tail  of  a  big  one  emerg 
ing  from  his  pocket.  Then  it  seems  almost  as  if 
these  were  things  that  had  really  happened,  and  of 
which  you  yourself  were  a  great  part. 

Now  this  was  the  way  in  which  the  boy  came  into 
possession  of  his  rod.  He  was  by  nature  and  hered 
ity  one  of  those  predestined  anglers  whom  Izaak 
Walton  tersely  describes  as  "born  so."  His  earliest 
passion  was  fishing.  His  favorite  passage  in  Holy 
Writ  was  that  place  where  Simon  Peter  throws  a 
line  into  the  sea  and  pulls  out  a  great  fish  at  the  first 
cast. 

But  hitherto  his  passion  had  been  indulged  under 
difficulties — with  improvised  apparatus  of  cut  poles, 
and  flabby  pieces  of  string,  and  bent  pins,  which 
always  failed  to  hold  the  biggest  fish;  or  perhaps 
with  borrowed  tackle,  dangling  a  fat  worm  in  vain 
before  the  noses  of  the  staring,  supercilious  sunfish 
that  poised  themselves  in  the  clear  water  around  the 
Lake  House  dock  at  Lake  George;  or,  at  best,  on 
picnic  parties  across  the  lake,  marred  by  the  humili 
ating  presence  of  nurses,  and  disturbed  by  the  obsti 
nate  refusal  of  old  Horace,  the  boatman,  to  believe 
that  the  boy  could  bait  his  own  hook,  but  sometimes 
crowned  with  the  delight  of  bringing  home  a  whole 
basketful  of  yellow  perch  and  goggle-eyes.  Of 
nobler  sport  with  game  fish,  like  the  vaulting  sal 
mon  and  the  merry,  pugnacious  trout,  as  yet  the  boy 
had  only  dreamed.  But  he  had  heard  that  there 
were  such  fish  in  the  streams  that  flowed  down  from 


A  Boy  and  a  Rod  5 

the  mountains  around  Lake  George,  and  he  was  at 
the  happy  age  when  he  could  believe  anything — if 
it  was  sufficiently  interesting. 

There  was  one  little  river,  and  only  one,  within 
his  knowledge  and  the  reach  of  his  short  legs.  It 
was  a  tiny,  lively  rivulet  that  came  out  of  the  woods 
about  half  a  mile  away  from  the  hotel,  and  ran 
down  eater-cornered  through  a  sloping  meadow, 
crossing  the  road  under  a  flat  bridge  of  boards, 
just  beyond  the  root-beer  shop  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  village.  It  seemed  large  enough  to  the  boy,  and 
he  had  long  had  his  eye  upon  it  as  a  fitting  theatre 
for  the  beginning  of  a  real  angler's  life.  Those 
rapids,  those  falls,  those  deep,  whirling  pools  with 
beautiful  foam  on  them  like  soft,  white  custard, 
were  they  not  such  places  as  the  trout  loved  to 
hide  in? 

You  can  see  the  long  hotel  piazza.,  with  the  gos 
sipy  groups  of  wooden  chairs  standing  vacant  in 
the  early  afternoon;  for  the  grown-up  people  are 
dallying  with  the  ultimate  nuts  and  raisins  of  their 
mid-day  dinner.  A  villainous  clatter  of  innumer 
able  little  vegetable-dishes  comes  from  the  open  win 
dows  of  the  pantry  as  the  boy  steals  past  the  kitchen 
end  of  the  house,  with  Horace's  lightest  bamboo 
pole  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  little  brother  in  skirts 
and  short  white  stockings  tagging  along  behind  him. 

When  they  come  to  the  five-rail  fence  where  the 
brook  runs  out  of  the  field,  the  question  is,  Over 
or  under  ?  The  lowlier  method  seems  safer  for  the 
little  brother,  as  well  as  less  conspicuous  for  per- 


6  Memories  and  Pictures 

sons  who  desire  to  avoid  publicity  until  their  enter 
prise  has  achieved  success.  So  they  crawl  beneath 
a  bend  in  the  lowest  rail — only  tearing  one  tiny 
three-cornered  hole  in  a  jacket,  and  making  some 
juicy  green  stains  on  the  white  stockings — and 
emerge  with  suppressed  excitement  in  the  field  of 
the  cloth  of  buttercups  and  daisies. 

What  an  afternoon — how  endless  and  yet  how 
swift!  What  perilous  efforts  to  leap  across  the 
foaming  stream  at  its  narrowest  points ;  what  es 
capes  from  quagmires  and  possible  quicksands ; 
what  stealthy  creeping  through  the  grass  to  the 
edge  of  a  likely  pool,  and  cautious  dropping  of  the 
line  into  an  unseen  depth,  and  patient  waiting  for 
a  bite,  until  the  restless  little  brother,  prowling 
about  below,  discovers  that  the  hook  is  not  in  the 
water  at  all,  but  lying  on  top  of  a  dry  stone; 
thereby  proving  that  patience  is  not  the  only  virtue, 
or,  at  least,  that  it  does  a  better  business  when  it 
has  a  small  vice  of  impatience  in  partnership  with  it ! 

How  tired  the  adventurers  grow  as  the  day  -wears 
away;  and  as  yet  they  have  taken  nothing!  But 
their  strength  and  courage  return  as  if  by  magic 
when  there  comes  a  surprising  twitch  at  the  line 
in  a  shallow,  unpromising  rapid,  and  with  a  jerk 
of  the  pole  a  small,  wiggling  fish  is  whirled  through 
the  air  and  landed  thirty  feet  back  in  the  meadow. 

"For  pity's  sake,  don't  lose  him!  There  he  is 
among  the  roots  of  the  blue  flag." 

"I've  got  him !  How  cold  he  is — how  slippery — 
how  pretty !  Just  like  a  piece  of  rainbow !" 


A  Boy  and  a  Rod  7 

"Do  you  see  the  red  spots?  Did  you  notice  how 
gamy  he  was,  little  brother;  how  he  played?  It 
is  a  trout,  for  sure ;  a  real  trout,  almost  as  long  as 
your  hand." 

So  the  two  lads  tramp  along  up  the  stream, 
chattering  as  if  there  were  no  rubric  of  silence  in 
the  angler's  code.  Presently  another  simple-minded 
troutling  falls  a  victim  to  their  unpremeditated  art ; 
and  they  begin  already,  being  human,  to  wish  for 
something  larger.  In  the  very  last  pool  that  they 
dare  attempt — a  dark  hole  under  a  steep  bank, 
where  the  brook  issues  from  the  woods — the  boy 
drags  out  the  hoped-for  prize,  a  splendid  trout, 
longer  than  a  new  lead-pencil.  But  he  feels  sure 
that  there  must  be  another,  even  larger,  in  the  same 
place.  He  swings  his  line  out  carefully  over  the 
water,  and  just  as  he  is  about  to  drop  it  in,  the  little 
brother,  perched  on  the  sloping  brink,  slips  on  the 
smooth  pine-needles,  and  goes  sliddering  down  into 
the  pool  up  to  his  waist.  How  he  weeps  with  dis 
may,  and  how  funnily  his  dress  sticks  to  him  as 
he  crawls  out!  But  his  grief  is  soon  assuaged  by 
the  privilege  of  carrying  the  trout  strung  on  an 
alder  twig;  and  it  is  a  happy,  muddy,  proud  pair 
of  urchins  that  climb  over  the  fence  out  of  the  field 
of  triumph  at  the  close  of  the  day. 

What  does  the  father  say,  as  he  meets  them  in 
the  road?  Is  he  frowning  or  smiling  under  that 
big  brown  beard?  You  cannot  be  quite  sure.  But 
one  thing  is  clear:  he  is  as  much  elated  over  the 
capture  of  the  real  trout  as  anyone.  He  is  ready 


8  Memories  and  Pictures 

to  deal  mildly  with  a  little  irregularity  for  the  sake 
of  encouraging  pluck  and  perseverance.  He  makes 
the  boy  feel  that  running  away  with  his  little  brother 
to  go  fishing  is  an  offence  which  must  never  be 
repeated,  and  then  promises  him  a  new  fishing-rod, 
all  his  own,  if  he  will  always  ask  leave  before  he 
goes  out  to  use  it. 

The  arrival  of  the  rod,  in  four  joints,  with  an 
extra  tip,  a  brass  reel,  and  the  other  luxuries  for 
which  a  true  angler  would  willingly  exchange  the 
necessaries  of  life,  marked  a  new  epoch  in  the  boy's 
career.  One  of  the  first  events  that  followed  was 
the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  high  rubber  boots.  In 
serted  in  this  armor  of  modern  infantry,  and  trans 
figured  with  delight,  the  boy  clumped  through  all 
the  little  rivers  within  a  circuit  of  ten  miles  from 
Caldwell,  and  began  to  learn  by  parental  example 
the  yet  unmastered  art  of  complete  angling. 

But  because  some  of  the  streams  were  deep  and 
strong,  and  his  legs  were  short  and  slender,  and 
his  ambition  was  even  taller  than  his  boots,  the 
father  would  sometimes  take  him  up  pickaback, 
and  wade  along  carefully  through  the  perilous  places 
— which  are  often,  in  this  world,  the  very  places  one 
longs  to  fish  in.  So,  in  your  remembrance,  you  can 
see  the  little  rubber  boots  sticking  out  under  the 
father's  arms,  and  the  rod  projecting  over  his  head, 
and  the  bait  dangling  down  unsteadily  into  the  deep 
holes,  and  the  delighted  boy  hooking  and  playing 
and  basketing  his  trout  high  in  the  air. 


A  Boy  and  a  Rod  9 

II 

The  promotion  from  all-day  picnics  to  a  two 
weeks'  camping-trip  is  like  going  from  school  to 
college.  By  this  time  a  natural  process  of  evolu 
tion  has  raised  the  first  rod  to  something  lighter 
and  more  flexible — a  fly-rod,  so  to  speak,  but  not 
a  bigoted  one — just  a  serviceable,  unprejudiced  arti 
cle,  not  above  using  any  kind  of  bait  that  may  be 
necessary  to  catch  the  fish.  The  father  has  received 
the  new  title  of  "governor,"  indicating  not  less,  but 
more  authority,  and  has  called  in  new  instructors 
to  carry  on  the  boy's  education:  real  Adirondack 
guides — old  Sam  Dunning  and  one-eyed  Enos,  the 
last  and  laziest  of  the  Saranac  Indians.  Better  men 
will  be  discovered  for  later  trips,  but  none  more 
amusing,  and  none  whose  wood-craft  seems  more 
wonderful  than  that  of  this  queerly  matched  team, 
as  they  make  the  first  camp  in  a  pelting  rain-storm 
on  the  shore  of  Big  Clear  Pond.  The  pitching  of 
the  tents  is  a  lesson  in  architecture,  the  building  of 
the  camp-fire  a  victory  over  damp  nature,  and  the 
supper  of  potatoes  and  bacon  and  fried  trout  a 
veritable  triumph  of  culinary  art. 

At  midnight  the  rain  is  pattering  persistently  on 
the  canvas;  the  front  flaps  are  closed  and  tied  to 
gether;  the  lingering  fire  shines  through  them  and 
sends  vague  shadows  wavering  up  and  down ;  the 
governor  is  rolled  up  in  his  blankets,  sound  asleep. 
It  is  a  very  long  night  for  the  boy. 

What   is  that   rustling  noise  outside  the  tent? 


IO  Memories  and  Pictures 

Probably  some  small  creature,  a  squirrel  or  a  rab 
bit.  Rabbit  stew  would  be  good  for  breakfast.  But 
it  sounds  louder  now,  almost  loud  enough  to  be  a 
fox;  there  are  no  wolves  left  in  the  Adirondacks, 
or  at  least  only  a  very  few.  That  is  certainly  quite 
a  heavy  footstep  prowling  around  the  provision- 
box.  Could  it  be  a  panther — they  step  very  softly 
for  their  size — or  a  bear,  perhaps?  Sam  Dunning 
told  about  catching  one  in  a  trap  just  below  here. 
(Ah,  my  boy,  you  will  soon  learn  that  there  is  no 
spot  in  all  the  forests  created  by  a  bountiful  Provi 
dence  so  poor  as  to  be  without  its  bear  story.) 
Where  was  the  rifle  put?  There  it  is,  at  the  foot 
of  the  tent-pole.  Wonder  if  it  is  loaded? 

"Waugh-ho  I     Waugh-ho-o-o-o !" 

The  boy  springs  from  his  blankets  like  a  cat, 
and  peeps  out  between  the  tent-flaps.  There  sits 
Enos,  in  the  shelter  of  a  leaning  tree  by  the  fire, 
with  his  head  thrown  back  and  a  bottle  poised  at 
his  mouth.  His  lonely  eye  is  cocked  up  at  a  great 
horned  owl  on  the  branch  above  him.  Again  the 
sudden  voice  breaks  out: 

"Whoo !  whoo !  whoo  cooks  for  you  all  f" 

Enos  puts  the  bottle  down,  with  a  grunt,  and 
creeps  off  to  his  tent. 

"De  debbil  in  dat  owl,"  he  mutters.  "How  he 
know  I  cook  for  dis  camp  ?  How  he  know  'bout  dat 
bottle?  Ugh!" 

There  are  hundreds  of  pictures  that  flash  into 
light  as  the  boy  goes  on  his  course,  year  after  year, 
through  the  Woods.  There  is  the  luxurious  camp 


A  Boy  and  a  Rod  II 

on  Tupper's  Lake,  with  its  log  cabins  in  the  spruce- 
grove,  and  its  regiment  of  hungry  men  who  ate 
almost  a  deer  a  day;  and  there  is  the  little  bark 
shelter  on  the  side  of  Mount  Marcy,  where  the  gov 
ernor  and  the  boy,  with  baskets  full  of  trout  from 
the  Opalescent  River,  are  spending  the  night,  with 
nothing  but  a  fire  to  keep  them  warm.  There  is 
the  North  Bay  at  Moosehead,  with  Joe  La  Croix 
(one  more  Frenchman  who  thinks  he  looks  like 
Napoleon)  posing  on  the  rocks  beside  his  canoe,  and 
only  reconciled  by  his  vanity  to  the  wasteful  pas 
time  of  taking  photographs  while  the  big  fish  are 
rising  gloriously  out  at  the  end  of  the  point.  There 
is  the  small  spring-hole  beside  the  Saranac  River, 
where  Pliny  Robbins  and  the  boy  caught  twenty- 
three  noble  trout,  weighing  from  one  to  three  pounds 
apiece,  in  the  middle  of  a  hot  August  afternoon,  and 
hid  themselves  in  the  bushes  whenever  they  heard 
a  party  coming  down  the  river,  because  they  did  not 
care  to  attract  company ;  and  there  are  the  Middle 
Falls,  where  the  governor  stood  on  a  long  spruce 
log,  taking  two-pound  fish  with  the  fly,  and  stepping 
out  at  every  cast  a  little  nearer  to  the  end  of  the 
log,  until  it  slowly  tipped  with  him,  and  he  settled 
down  into  the  river. 

Among  such  scenes  as  these  the  boy  pursued  his 
education,  learning  many  things  that  are  not  taught 
in  colleges ;  learning  to  take  the  weather  as  it  comes, 
wet  or  dry,  and  fortune  as  it  falls,  good  or  bad; 
learning  that  a  meal  which  is  scanty  fare  for  one 
becomes  a  banquet  for  two — provided  the  other  is 


12  Memories  and  Pictures 

the  right  person;  learning  that  there  is  some  skill 
in  everything,  even  in  digging  bait,  and  that  what 
is  called  luck  consists  chiefly  in  having  your  tackle 
in  good  order;  learning  that  a  man  can  be  just  as 
happy  in  a  log  shanty  as  in  a  brownstone  mansion, 
and  that  the  very  best  pleasures  are  those  that  do 
not  leave  a  bad  taste  in  the  mouth.  And  in  all  this 
the  governor  was  his  best  teacher  and  his  closest 
comrade. 


LITTLE   RIVERS 

A  RIVER  is  the  most  human  and  companionable  of 
all  inanimate  things.  It  has  a  life,  a  character,  a 
voice  of  its  own,  and  is  as  full  of  good  fellowship  as 
a  sugar-maple  is  of  sap.  It  can  talk  in  various 
tones,  loud  or  low,  and  of  many  subjects,  grave  and 
gay.  Under  favorable  circumstances  it  will  even 
make  a  shift  to  sing,  not  in  a  fashion  that  can  be 
reduced  to  notes  and  set  down  in  black  and  white  on 
a  sheet  of  paper,  but  in  a  vague,  refreshing  manner, 
and  to  a  wandering  air  that  goes 

"  Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

For  real  company  and  friendship,  there  is  noth 
ing  outside  of  the  animal  kingdom  that  is  com 
parable  to  a  river. 

I  will  admit  that  a  very  good  case  can  be  made 
out  in  favor  of  some  other  objects  of  natural  affec 
tion.  Trees  seem  to  come  very  close  to  our  life. 
They  are  often  rooted  in  our  richest  feelings,  and 
our  sweetest  memories,  like  birds,  build  nests  in 
their  branches.  I  remember,  the  last  time  that  I 
saw  James  Russell  Lowell  (only  a  few  weeks  before 
his  musical  voice  was  hushed),  he  walked  out  with 
me  into  the  quiet  garden  at  Elmwood  to  say  good- 

13 


14  Memories  and  Pictures 

by.  There  was  a  great  horse-chestnut  tree  beside 
the  house,  towering  above  the  gable,  and  covered 
with  blossoms  from  base  to  summit — a  pyramid  of 
green  supporting  a  thousand  smaller  pyramids  of 
white.  The  poet  looked  up  at  it  with  his  gray,  pain- 
furrowed  face,  and  laid  his  trembling  hand  upon  the 
trunk.  "I  planted  the  nut,"  said  he,  "from  which 
this  tree  grew;  and  my  father  was  with  me  and 
showed  me  how  to  plant  it." 

Yes,  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  behalf  of 
tree-worship.  But  when  I  can  go  where  I  please 
and  do  what  I  like  best,  my  feet  turn  not  to  a  tree, 
but  to  the  bank  of  a  river,  for  there  the  musings  of 
solitude  find  a  friendly  accompaniment,  and  human 
intercourse  is  purified  and  sweetened  by  the  flow 
ing,  murmuring  water.  It  is  by  a  river  that  I 
would  choose  to  make  love,  and  to  revive  old  friend 
ships,  and  to  play  with  the  children,  and  to  confess 
my  faults,  and  to  escape  from  vain,  selfish  desires, 
and  to  cleanse  my  mind  from  all  the  false  and  fool 
ish  things  that  mar  the  joy  and  peace  of  living. 
Like  David's  hart,  I  pant  for  the  water-brooks. 
There  is  wisdom  in  the  advice  of  Seneca,  who  says, 
"Where  a  spring  rises,  or  a  river  flows,  there 
should  we  build  altars  and  offer  sacrifices." 

Every  river  that  flows  is  good,  and  has  some 
thing  worthy  to  be  loved.  But  those  that  we  love 
most  are  always  the  ones  that  we  have  known  best 
— the  stream  that  ran  before  our  father's  door,  the 
current  on  which  we  ventured  our  first  boat  or  cast 
our  first  fly,  the  brook  on  whose  banks  we  first 


Little  Rivers  15 

picked  the  twin-flower  of  young  love.  I  am  all  for 
the  little  rivers.  Let  those  who  will,  chant  in  heroic 
verse  the  renown  of  Amazon  and  Mississippi  and 
Niagara,  but  my  prose  shall  flow — or  straggle  along 
at  such  a  pace  as  the  prosaic  muse  may  grant  me  to 
attain — in  praise  of  Beaverkill  and  Neversink  and 
Swiftwater,  of  Saranac  and  Raquette  and  Ausable, 
of  Allegash  and  Aroostook  and  Moose  River. 

I  will  set  my  affections  upon  rivers  that  are  not 
too  great  for  intimacy.  And  if  by  chance  any  of 
these  little  ones  have  also  become  famous,  like  the 
Tweed  and  the  Thames  and  the  Arno,  I  at  least 
will  praise  them,  because  they  are  still  at  heart  little 
rivers. 

The  real  way  to  know  a  little  river  is  not  to 
glance  at  it  here  or  there  in  the  course  of  a  hasty 
journey,  nor  to  become  acquainted  with  it  after  it 
has  been  partly  civilized  and  spoiled  by  too  close 
contact  with  the  works  of  man.  You  must  go  to 
its  native  haunts ;  you  must  see  it  in  youth  and  free 
dom;  you  must  accommodate  yourself  to  its  pace, 
and  give  yourself  to  its  influence,  and  follow  its 
meanderings  whithersoever  they  may  lead  you. 

Now,  of  this  pleasant  pastime  there  are  three 
principal  forms.  You  may  go  as  a  walker,  taking 
the  riverside  path,  or  making  a  way  for  yourself 
through  the  tangled  thickets  or  across  the  open 
meadows.  You  may  go  as  a  sailer,  launching  your 
light  canoe  on  the  swift  current  and  committing 
yourself  for  a  day,  or  a  week,  or  a  month,  to  the 
delightful  uncertainties  of  a  voyage  through  the 


1 6  Memories  and  Pictures 

forest.  You  may  go  as  a  wader,  stepping  into  the 
stream  and  going  down  with  it,  through  rapids  and 
shallows  and  deeper  pools,  until  you  come  to  the 
end  of  your  courage  and  the  daylight.  Of  these 
three  ways  I  know  not  which  is  best.  But  in  all  of 
them  the  essential  thing  is  that  you  must  be  will 
ing  and  glad  to  be  led;  you  must  take  the  little 
river  for  your  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 

And  what  a  good  guidance  it  gives  you.  How 
cheerfully  it  lures  you  on  into  the  secrets  of  field 
and  wood,  and  brings  you  acquainted  with  the  birds 
and  the  flowers.  The  stream  can  show  you,  better 
than  any  other  teacher,  how  nature  works  her  en 
chantments  with  color  and  music. 

Go  out  to  the  Beaverkill 

"  In  the  tassel-time  of  spring," 

and  follow  its  brimming  waters  through  the  bud 
ding  forests,  to  that  corner  which  we  call  the 
Painter's  Camp.  See  how  the  banks  are  all  enam 
elled  with  the  pale  hepatica,  the  painted  trillium, 
and  the  delicate  pink-veined  spring  beauty.  A  little 
later  in  the  year,  when  the  ferns  are  uncurling  their 
long  fronds,  the  troops  of  blue  and  white  violets  will 
come  dancing  down  to  the  edge  of  the  stream,  and 
creep  venturously  out  to  the  very  end  of  that  long, 
moss-covered  log  in  the  water.  Before  these  have 
vanished,  the  yellow  crow-foot  and  the  cinquefoil 
will  appear,  followed  by  the  star-grass  and  the  loose 
strife  and  the  golden  St.  John's-wort.  Then  the 
unseen  painter  begins  to  mix  the  royal  color  on  his 


Little  Rivers  17 

palette,  and  the  red  of  the  bee-balm  catches  your 
eye.  If  you  are  lucky,  you  may  find,  in  midsummer, 
a  slender  fragrant  spike  of  the  purple-fringed  orchis, 
and  you  cannot  help  finding  the  universal  self-heal. 
Yellow  returns  in  the  drooping  flowers  of  the  jewel- 
weed,  and  blue  repeats  itself  in  the  trembling  hare 
bells,  and  scarlet  is  glorified  in  the  flaming  robe  of 
the  cardinal-flower.  Later  still,  the  summer  closes 
in  a  splendor  of  bloom,  with  gentians  and  asters  and 
golden-rod. 

You  never  get  so  close  to  the  birds  as  when  you 
are  wading  quietly  down  a  little  river,  casting  your 
fly  deftly  under  the  branches  for  the  wary  trout, 
but  ever  on  the  lookout  for  all  the  various  pleasant 
things  that  nature  has  to  bestow  upon  you.  Here 
you  shall  come  upon  the  cat-bird  at  her  morning 
bath,  and  hear  her  sing,  in  a  clump  of  pussy 
willows,  that  low,  tender,  confidential  song  which 
she  keeps  for  the  hours  of  domestic  intimacy.  The 
spotted  sandpiper  will  run  along  the  stones  before 
you,  crying,  "Wet-feet,  wet-feet!"  and  bowing  and 
teetering  in  the  friendliest  manner,  as  if  to  show 
you  the  way  to  the  best  pools.  In  the  thick  branches 
of  the  hemlocks  that  stretch  across  the  stream,  the 
tiny  warblers,  dressed  in  a  hundred  colors,  chirp 
and  twitter  confidingly  above  your  head;  and  the 
Maryland  yellow-throat,  flitting  through  the  bushes 
like  a  little  gleam  of  sunlight,  calls  "Witchery, 
witchery,  witchery!"  That  plaintive,  forsaken,  per 
sistent  note,  never  ceasing,  even  in  the  noonday 
silence,  comes  from  the  wood-pewee,  dropping  upqn 


1 8  Memories  and  Pictures 

the  bough  of  some  high  tree,  and  complaining,  like 
Mariana  in  the  moated  grange,  "Weary,  weary, 
weary  I" 

When  the  stream  runs  out  into  the  old  clearing, 
or  down  through  the  pasture,  you  find  other  and 
livelier  birds — the  robin,  with  his  sharp,  saucy  call 
and  breathless,  merry  warble ;  the  bluebird,  with 
his  notes  of  pure  gladness,  and  the  oriole,  with  his 
wild,  flexible  whistle;  the  chewink,  bustling  about 
in  the  thicket,  talking  to  his  sweetheart  in  French, 
"Cherie,  cherie  I"  and  the  song-sparrow,  perched  on 
his  favorite  limb  of  a  young  maple,  close  beside 
the  water,  and  singing  happily,  through  sunshine 
and  through  rain.  This  is  the  true  bird  of  the 
brook,  after  all:  the  winged  spirit  of  cheerfulness 
and  contentment,  the  patron  saint  of  little  rivers, 
the  fisherman's  friend.  He  seems  to  enter  into  your 
sport  with  his  good  wishes,  and  for  an  hour  at  a 
time,  while  you  are  trying  every  fly  in  your  book, 
from  a  black  gnat  to  a  white  miller,  to  entice  the 
crafty  old  trout  at  the  foot  of  the  meadow-pool, 
the  song-sparrow,  close  above  you,  will  be  chant 
ing  patience  and  encouragement.  And  when  at  last 
success  crowns  your  endeavor,  and  the  party-colored 
prize  is  glittering  in  your  net,  the  bird  on  the  bough 
breaks  out  in  an  ecstasy  of  congratulation :  "Catch 
'im,  catch  'im,  catch  'im;  oh,  what  a  pretty  fellow! 
sweet!" 

There  are  other  birds  that  seem  to  have  a  very 
different  temper.  The  blue- jay  sits  high  up  in  the 
withered  pine-tree,  bobbing  up  and  down,  and  call- 


Little  Rivers  19 

ing  to  his  mate  in  a  tone  of  affected  sweetness, 
"Salute-her,  salute-her,"  but  when  you  come  in  sight 
he  flies  away  with  a  harsh  cry  of  "Thief,  thief,  thief!" 
The  kingfisher,  ruffling  his  crest  in  solitary  pride 
on  the  end  of  a  dead  branch,  darts  down  the  stream 
at  your  approach,  winding  up  his  reel  angrily  as 
if  he  despised  you  for  interrupting  his  fishing.  And 
the  cat-bird,  that  sang  so  charmingly  while  she 
thought  herself  unobserved,  now  tries  to  scare  you 
away  by  screaming  "Snake,  snake!" 

As  evening  draws  near,  and  the  light  beneath 
the  trees  grows  yellower,  and  the  air  is  full  of  filmy 
insects  out  for  their  last  dance,  the  voice  of  the 
little  river  becomes  louder  and  more  distinct.  The 
true  poets  have  often  noticed  this  apparent  increase 
in  the  sound  of  flowing  waters  at  nightfall.  Gray, 
in  one  of  his  letters,  speaks  of  "hearing  the  mur 
mur  of  many  waters  not  audible  in  the  daytime." 
Wordsworth  repeats  the  same  thought  almost  in 
the  same  words: 

"  A  soft  and  lulling  sound  is  heard 
Of  streams  inaudible  by  day." 

And  Tennyson,  in  the  valley  of  Cauteretz,  tells  of 
the  river 

"  Deepening  his  voice  with  deepening  of  the  night." 

It  is  in  this  mystical  hour  that  you  will  hear  the 
most  celestial  and  entrancing  of  all  bird-notes,  the 
songs  of  the  thrushes — the  hermit,  and  the  wood- 
thrush,  and  the  veery.  Sometimes,  but  not  often, 


2O  Memories  and  Pictures 

you  will  see  the  singers.  I  remember  once,  at  the 
close  of  a  beautiful  day's  fishing-  on  the  Swiftwater, 
I  came  out,  just  after  sunset,  into  a  little  open  space 
in  an  elbow  of  the  stream.  It  was  still  early  spring, 
and  the  leaves  were  tiny.  On  the  top  of  a  small 
sumac,  not  thirty  feet  away  from  me,  sat  a  veery. 
I  could  see  the  pointed  spots  upon  his  breast,  the 
swelling  of  his  white  throat,  and  the  sparkle  of  his 
eyes,  as  he  poured  his  whole  heart  into  a  long  liquid 
chant,  the  clear  notes  rising  and  falling,  echoing 
and  interlacing  in  endless  curves  of  sound.  Other 
bird-songs  can  be  translated  into  words,  but  not 
this.  There  is  no  interpretation.  It  is  music — as 
Sidney  Lanier  defines  it, 

"  Love  in  search  of  a  word." 

Little  rivers  have  small  responsibilities.  They 
are  not  expected  to  bear  huge  navies  on  their  breast 
or  supply  a  hundred  thousand  horse-power  to  the 
factories  of  a  monstrous  town.  Neither  do  you 
come  to  them  hoping  to  draw  out  Leviathan  with  a 
hook.  It  is  enough  if  they  run  a  harmless,  amiable 
course,  and  keep  the  groves  and  fields  green  and 
fresh  along  their  banks,  and  offer  a  happy  alterna 
tion  of  nimble  rapids  and  quiet  pools, 

"  With  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling." 

When  you  set  out  to  explore  one  of  these  minor 
streams  in  your  canoe,  you  have  no  intention  of 


Little  Rivers  21 

epoch-making  discoveries  or  thrilling  and  world- 
famous  adventures.  You  float  placidly  down  the 
long  still  waters,  and  make  your  way  patiently 
through  the  tangle  of  fallen  trees  that  block  the 
stream,  and  run  the  smaller  falls,  and  carry  your 
boat  around  the  larger  ones,  with  no  loftier  ambi 
tion  than  to  reach  a  good  camp-ground  before  dark 
and  to  pass  the  intervening  hours  pleasantly,  "with 
out  offence  to  God  or  man."  It  is  an  agreeable 
frame  of  mind  for  one  who  has  done  his  fair  share 
of  work  in  the  world,  and  is  not  inclined  to  grumble 
at  his  wages.  And  I  suspect  there  are  many  tem 
pers  and  attitudes,  often  called  virtuous,  in  which 
the  human  spirit  appears  to  less  advantage  in  the 
sight  of  Heaven. 


WOOD-MAGIC 

THERE  are  three  vines  that  belong  to  the  ancient 
forest.  Elsewhere  they  will  not  grow,  though  the 
soil  prepared  for  them  be  never  so  rich,  the  shade 
of  the  arbor  built  for  them  never  so  closely  and 
cunningly  woven.  Their  delicate,  thread-like  roots 
take  no  hold  upon  the  earth  tilled  and  troubled  by 
the  fingers  of  man.  The  fine  sap  that  steals  through 
their  long,  slender  limbs  pauses  and  fails  when  they 
are  watered  by  human  hands.  Silently  the  secret 
of  their  life  retreats  and  shrinks  away  and  hides 
itself. 

But  in  the  woods,  where  falling  leaves  and 
crumbling  tree-trunks  and  wilting  ferns  have  been 
moulded  by  Nature  into  a  deep,  brown  humus,  clean 
and  fragrant — in  the  woods,  where  the  sunlight  fil 
ters  green  and  golden  through  interlacing  branches, 
and  where  pure  moisture  of  distilling  rains  and 
melting  snows  is  held  in-  treasury  by  never-failing 
banks  of  moss — under  the  verdurous  flood  of  the 
forest,  like  sea-weeds  under  the  ocean  waves,  these 
three  little  creeping  vines  put  forth  their  hands  with 
joy,  and  spread  over  rock  and  hillock  and  twisted 
tree-root  and  mouldering  log,  in  cloaks  and  scarves 
and  wreaths  of  tiny  evergreen,  glossy  leaves. 


Wood-Magic  23 

One  of  them  is  adorned  with  white  pearls  sprin 
kled  lightly  over  its  robe  of  green.  This  is  Snow- 
berry,  and  if  you  eat  of  it  you  will  grow  wise  in  the 
wisdom  of  flowers.  You  will  know  where  to  find 
the  yellow  violet,  and  the  wake-robin,  and  the  pink 
lady-slipper,  and  the  scarlet  sage,  and  the  fringed 
gentian.  You  will  understand  how  the  buds  trust 
themselves  to  the  spring  in  their  unfolding,  and  how 
the  blossoms  trust  themselves  to  the  winter  in  their 
withering,  and  how  the  busy  hands  of  Nature  are 
ever  weaving  the  beautiful  garment  of  life  out  of 
the  strands  of  death,  and  nothing  is  lost  that  yields 
itself  to  her  quiet  handling. 

Another  of  the  vines  of  the  forest  is  called  Par 
tridge-berry.  Rubies  are  hidden  among  its  foliage, 
and  if  you  eat  of  this  fruit  you  will  grow  wise  in 
the  wisdom  of  birds.  You  will  know  where  the 
oven-bird  secretes  her  nest,  and  where  the  wood 
cock  dances  in  the  air  at  night;  the  drumming-log 
of  the  ruffed  grouse  will  be  easy  to  find,  and  you 
will  see  the  dark  lodges  of  the  evergreen  thickets 
inhabited  by  hundreds  of  warblers.  There  will  be 
no  dead  silence  for  you  in  the  forest  any  longer, 
but  you  will  hear  sweet  and  delicate  voices  on  every 
side,  voices  that  you  know  and  love ;  you  will  catch 
the  key-note  of  the  silver  flute  of  the  wood-thrush, 
and  the  silver  harp  of  the  veery,  and  the  silver  bells 
of  the  hermit;  and  something  in  your  heart  will 
answer  to  them  all.  In  the  frosty  stillness  of  Octo 
ber  nights  you  will  see  the  airy  tribes  flitting  across 
the  moon,  following  the  secret  call  that  guides  them 


24  Memories  and  Pictures 

southward.  In  the  calm  brightness  of  winter  sun 
shine,  filling  sheltered  copses  with  warmth  and 
cheer,  you  will  watch  the  lingering  bluebirds  and 
robins  and  song-sparrows  playing  at  summer,  while 
the  chickadees  and  the  j  uncos  and  the  cross-bills 
make  merry  in  the  wind-swept  fields.  In  the  lucent 
mornings  of  April  you  will  hear  your  old  friends 
coming  home  to  you,  Phoebe,  and  oriole,  and  yel 
low-throat,  and  red-wing,  and  tanager,  and  cat 
bird.  When  they  call  to  you  and  greet  you,  you  will 
understand  that  Nature  knows  a  secret  for  which 
man  has  never  found  a  word — the  secret  that  tells 
itself  in  song. 

The  third  of  the  forest-vines  is  Wood-Magic.  It 
bears  neither  flower  nor  fruit.  Its  leaves  are  hardly 
to  be  distinguished  from  the  leaves  of  the  other 
vines.  Perhaps  they  are  a  little  rounder  than  the 
Snowberry's,  a  little  more  pointed  than  the  Par 
tridge-berry's;  sometimes  you  might  mistake  them 
for  the  one,  sometimes  for  the  other.  No  marks  of 
warning  have  been  written  upon  them.  If  you  find 
them,  it  is  your  fortune;  if  you  taste  them,  it  is 
your  fate. 

For  as  you  browse  your  way  through  the  forest, 
nipping  here  and  there  a  rosy  leaf  of  young  win 
ter-green,  a  fragrant  emerald  tip  of  balsam-fir,  a 
twig  of  spicy  birch,  if  by  chance  you  pluck  the  leaves 
of  Wood-Magic  and  eat  them,  you  will  not  know 
what  you  have  done,  but  the  enchantment  of  the 
tree-land  will  enter  your  heart  and  the  charm  of  the 
wildwood  will  flow  through  your  veins. 


Wood-Magic  25 

You  will  never  get  away  from  it.  The  sighing  of 
the  wind  through  the  pine-trees  and  the  laughter  of 
the  stream  in  its  rapids  will  sound  through  all  your 
dreams.  On  beds  of  silken  softness  you  will  long 
for  the  sleep-song  of  whispering  leaves  above  your 
head  and  the  smell  of  a  couch  of  balsam-boughs. 
At  tables  spread  with  dainty  fare  you  will  be  hun 
gry  for  the  joy  of  the  hunt  and  for  the  angler's 
sylvan  feast.  In  proud  cities  you  will  weary  for 
the  sight  of  a  mountain  trail ;  in  great  cathedrals 
you  will  think  of  the  long,  arching  aisles  of  the 
woodland;  and  in  the  noisy  solitude  of  crowded 
streets  you  will  hone  after  the  friendly  forest. 

This  is  what  will  happen  to  you  if  you  eat  the 
leaves  of  that  little  vine,  Wood-Magic. 


CAMPING  OUT 


THE    GUIDES 

THEY  are  all  French  Canadians  of  unmixed  blood, 
descendants  of  the  men  who  came  to  New  France 
with  Champlain,  three  centuries  ago.  Ferdinand 
Larouche,  our  head  guide,  is  a  stocky  little  fel 
low,  a  "sawed  off"  man,  not  more  than  five  feet 
two  inches  tall,  but  every  inch  of  him  is  pure 
vim.  He  can  carry  a  big  canoe  or  a  hundred 
weight  of  camp  stuff  over  a  mile  portage  without 
stopping  to  take  breath.  He  is  a  capital  canoe- 
man,  with  prudence  enough  to  balance  his  cour 
age,  and  a  fair  cook,  with  plenty  of  that  quality 
which  is  wanting  in  the  ordinary  cook  of  commerce 
— good  humor.  Always  joking,  whistling,  singing, 
he  brings  the  atmosphere  of  a  perpetual  holiday 
along  with  him.  His  weather-worn  coat  covers  a 
heart  full  of  music.  He  has  two  talents  which  make 
him  a  marked  man  among  his  comrades :  he  plays 
the  fiddle  to  the  delight  of  all  the  balls  and  weddings 
through  the  country-side,  and  he  speaks  English  to 
the  admiration  and  envy  of  the  other  guides.  But 
like  all  men  of  genius,  he  is  modest  about  his  accom- 
26 


Camping  Out  2J 

plishments.  "H'l  not  spik  good  h'English — h'only 
for  camp — fishin',  cookin',  dhe  voyage — h'all  dhose 
t'ings."  The  aspirates  puzzle  him.  He  can  get 
through  a  slash  of  fallen  timber  more  easily  than  a 
sentence  full  of  "this"  and  "that."  Sometimes  he 
expresses  his  meaning  queerly.  He  was  telling  me 
once  about  his  farm,  "not  far  off  here,  in  dhe  Riviere 
au  Cochon,  river  of  dhe  pig,  you  call  'im.  H'l  am 
a  widow,  got  five  sons,  t'ree  of  dhem  are  girls." 
But  he  usually  ends  by  falling  back  into  French, 
which,  he  assures  you,  you  speak  to  perfection, 
"much  better  than  the  Canadians;  the  French  of 
Paris,  in  short — M'sieu'  has  been  in  Paris  ?"  Such 
courtesy  is  born  in  the  blood,  and  is  irresistible. 
You  cannot  help  returning  the  compliment  and  as 
suring  him  that  his  English  is  remarkable,  good 
enough  for  all  practical  purposes,  better  than  any 
of  the  other  guides  can  speak.  And  so  it  is. 

His  brother  Francois  is  a  little  taller,  a  little  thin 
ner,  and  considerably  quieter  than  Ferdinand.  He 
laughs  loyally  at  his  brother's  jokes,  and  sings  the 
response  to  his  songs,  and  wields  a  good  second 
paddle  in  the  canoe. 

Jean — commonly  called  Johnny — Morel  is  a  tall, 
strong  man  of  fifty,  with  a  bushy  red  beard  that 
would  do  credit  to  a  pirate.  But  when  you  look  at 
him  more  closely,  you  see  that  he  has  a  clear,  kind 
blue  eye  and  a  most  honest,  friendly  face  under  his 
slouch  hat.  He  has  travelled  these  woods  and 
waters  for  thirty  years,  so  that  he  knows  the  way 
through  them  by  a  thousand  familiar  signs,  as  well 


28  Memories  and  Pictures 

as  you  know  the  streets  of  the  city.  He  is  our  path 
finder. 

The  bow  paddle  in  his  canoe  is  held  by  his  son 
Joseph,  a  lad  not  quite  fifteen,  but  already  as  tall 
and  almost  as  strong  as  a  man.  "He  is  yet  of  the 
youth,"  said  Johnny,  "and  he  knows  not  the  affairs 
of  the  camp.  This  trip  is  for  him  the  first — it  is  his 
school — but  I  hope  he  will  content  you.  He  is  good, 
M'sieu',  and  of  the  strongest  for  his  age.  I  have 
educated  already  two  sons  in  the  bow  of  my  canoe. 
The  oldest  has  gone  to  Pennsylvanie ;  he  peels  the 
bark  there  for  the  tanning  of  leather.  The  second 
had  the  misfortune  of  breaking  his  leg,  so  that  he 
can  no  longer  kneel  to  paddle.  He  has  descended 
to  the  making  of  shoes.  Joseph  is  my  third  pupil. 
And  I  have  still  a  younger  one  at  home  waiting  to 
come  into  my  school." 

A  touch  of  family  life  like  that  is  always  refresh 
ing,  and  doubly  so  in  the  wilderness.  For  what  is 
fatherhood  at  its  best,  everywhere,  but  the  training 
of  good  men  to  take  the  teacher's  place  when  his 
work  is  done?  Some  day,  when  Johnny's  rheuma 
tism  has  made  his  joints  a  little  stiffer  and  his  eyes 
have  lost  something  of  their  keenness,  he  will  be 
wielding  the  second  paddle  in  the  boat,  and  going 
out  only  on  the  short  and  easy  trips.  It  will  be 
young  Joseph  that  steers  the  canoe  through  the 
dangerous  places,  and  carries  the  heaviest  load 
over  the  portages,  and  leads  the  way  on  the  long 
journeys. 


Camping  Out  29 

II 

RUNNING   THE    RAPIDS 

We  embarked  our  tents  and  blankets,  our  pots 
and  pans,  and  bags  of  flour  and  potatoes  and  bacon 
and  other  delicacies,  our  rods  and  guns,  and  last, 
but  not  least,  our  axes  (without  which  man  in  the 
woods  is  a  helpless  creature),  in  two  birch-bark 
canoes,  and  went  flying  down  the  Saguenay. 

It  is  a  wonderful  place,  this  outlet  of  Lake  St. 
John.  All  the  floods  of  twenty  rivers  are  gathered 
here,  and  break  forth  through  a  net  of  islands  in  a 
double  stream.  The  southern  outlet  is  small,  and 
flows  somewhat  more  quietly  at  first.  But  the  north 
ern  outlet  is  a  huge  confluence  and  tumult  of  waters. 
You  see  the  set  of  the  tide  far  out  in  the  lake,  slid 
ing,  driving,  crowding,  hurrying  in  with  smooth 
currents  and  swirling  eddies  toward  the  corner  of 
escape.  By  the  rocky  cove  where  the  Island  House 
peers  out  through  the  fir-trees,  the  current  already 
has  a  perceptible  slope.  It  begins  to  boil  over  hid 
den  stones  in  the  middle,  and  gurgles  at  projecting 
points  of  rock.  A  mile  farther  down  there  is  an 
islet  where  the  stream  quickens,  chafes,  and  breaks 
into  a  rapid.  Behind  the  islet  it  drops  down  in  three 
or  four  foaming  steps.  On  the  outside  it  makes  one 
long,  straight  rush  into  a  line  of  white-crested 
standing  waves. 

As  we  approached,  the  steersman  in  the  first  canoe 
stood  up  to  look  over  the  course.  The  sea  was  high. 


30  Memories  and  Pictures 

Was  it  too  high?  The  canoes  were  heavily  loaded. 
Could  they  leap  the  waves  ?  There  was  a  quick  talk 
among  the  guides  as  we  slipped  along,  undecided 
which  way  to  turn.  Then  the  question  seemed 
to  settle  itself,  as  most  of  these  woodland  questions 
do,  as  if  some  silent  force  of  Nature  had  the  casting- 
vote.  "Let's  try  it !"  cried  Ferdinand,  "Come  on !" 
In  a  moment  we  were  sliding  down  the  smooth 
back  of  the  rapid,  directly  toward  the  first  big 
wave.  The  rocky  shore  went  by  us  like  a  dream ; 
we  could  feel  the  motion  of  the  earth  whirling 
around  with  us.  The  crest  of  the  billow  in  front 
curled  above  the  bow  of  the  canoe.  "Stop!  Stop! 
Slowly!"  A  swift  stroke  of  the  paddle  checked 
the  canoe,  quivering  and  prancing  like  a  horse  sud 
denly  reined  in.  The  wave  ahead,  as  if  surprised, 
sank  and  flattened  for  a  second.  The  canoe  leaped 
through  the  edge  of  it,  swerved  to  one  side,  and 
ran  gayly  down  along  the  fringe  of  the  line  of  bil 
lows,  into  quieter  water. 

Our  guides  began  to  shout,  and  joke  each  other, 
and  praise  their  canoes. 

"You  grazed  that  villain  rock  at  the  corner,"  said 
Jean ;  "didn't  you  know  where  it  was  ?" 

"Yes,  after  I  touched  it,"  cried  Ferdinand;  "but 
you  took  in  a  bucket  of  water,  and  I  suppose  your 
m'sieu'  is  sitting  on  a  piece  of  the  river.  Is  it 
not?" 

This  seemed  to  us  all  a  very  merry  jest.  It  is 
one  of  the  charms  of  life  in  the  woods  that  it  brings 
back  the  high  spirits  of  boyhood  and  renews  the 


DOWN  THE  PERIBONCA 


Camping  Out  31 

youth  of  the  world.  Plain  fun,  like  plain  food,  tastes 
good  out-of-doors. 

The  first  little  rapid  was  only  the  beginning. 
Half  a  mile  below  we  could  see  the  river  disappear 
between  two  points  of  rock.  There  was  a  roar  of 
conflict,  and  a  golden  mist  hanging  in  the  air,  like 
the  smoke  of  battle.  All  along  the  place  where  the 
river  sank  from  sight,  dazzling  heads  of  foam  were 
flashing  up  and  falling  back,  as  if  a  horde  of  water- 
sprites  were  vainly  trying  to  fight  their  way  up  to 
the  lake.  It  was  the  top  of  a  wild  succession  of  falls 
and  pools  where  no  boat  could  live  for  a  moment. 
We  ran  down  toward  it  as  far  as  the  water  served, 
and  then  turned  off  among  the  rocks  on  the  left 
hand,  to  take  the  portage. 

These  portages  are  among  the  troublesome  de 
lights  of  a  journey  in  the  wilderness.  To  the  guides 
they  mean  hard  work,  for  everything,  including  the 
boats,  must  be  carried  on  their  backs.  The  march 
of  the  canoes  on  dry  land  is  a  curious  sight.  But 
the  sportsman  carries  nothing,  except,  perhaps,  his 
gun,  or  his  rod,  or  his  photographic  camera;  and 
so  for  him  the  portage  is  only  a  pleasant  opportunity 
to  stretch  his  legs,  cramped  by  sitting  in  the  canoe, 
and  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  the  pretty  things 
that  are  in  the  woods. 

We  sauntered  along  the  trail  as  if  school  were 
out  and  would  never  keep  again.  How  fresh  and 
tonic  the  forest  seemed  as  we  plunged  into  its  bath 
of  shade.  There  were  our  old  friends  the  cedars, 
with  their  roots  twisted  across  the  path ;  and  the 


32  Memories  and  Pictures 

white  birches,  so  trim  in  youth  and  so  shaggy  in 
age;  and  the  sociable  spruces  and  balsams,  crowd 
ing  close  together,  and  interlacing  their  arms  over 
head.  There  were  the  little  springs,  trickling 
through  the  moss ;  and  the  slippery  logs  laid  across 
the  marshy  places;  and  the  fallen  trees,  cut  in  two 
and  pushed  aside — for  this  was  a  much-travelled 
portage. 

Around  the  open  spaces,  the  tall  meadow-rue 
stood  dressed  in  robes  of  fairy  white  and  green. 
The  blue  banners  of  the  fleur-de-lis  were  planted 
beside  the  springs.  In  shady  corners,  deeper  in 
the  wood,  the  fragrant  pyrola  lifted  its  scape  of 
clustering  bells,  like  a  lily  of  the  valley  wandered 
to  the  forest.  When  we  came  to  the  end  of  the 
portage,  among  the  loose  grasses  by  the  water-side 
we  found  the  exquisite  purple  spikes  of  the  lesser 
fringed  orchis,  loveliest  and  most  ethereal  of  all 
the  woodland  flowers  save  one. 

We  launched  our  canoes  again  on  the  great  pool 
at  the  foot  of  the  first  fall — a  broad  sweep  of  water 
a  mile  long  and  half  a  mile  wide,  full  of  eddies 
and  strong  currents,  and  covered  with  drifting 
foam.  There  was  the  old  camp-ground  on  the 
point  where  I  had  tented  so  often.  And  there  were 
the  big  fish,  showing  their  back  fins  as  they  circled 
lazily  around  in  the  eddies,  as  if  they  were  waiting 
to  play  with  us.  But  the  goal  of  our  day's  journey 
was  miles  away,  and  we  swept  along  with  the 
stream. 


Camping  Out  33 

III 

THE    TENT 

Men  may  say  what  they  will  in  praise  of  their 
houses,  but,  for  our  part,  we  are  agreed  that  there 
is  nothing  to  be  compared  with  a  tent.  It  is  the 
most  venerable  and  aristocratic  form  of  human 
habitation.  Abraham  and  Sarah  lived  in  it,  and 
shared  its  hospitality  with  angels.  It  is  exempt 
from  the  base  tyranny  of  the  plumber,  the  paper- 
hanger,  and  the  gas-man.  It  is  not  immovably 
bound  to  one  dull  spot  of  earth  by  the  chains  of  a 
cellar  and  a  system  of  water-pipes.  It  has  a  noble 
freedom  of  locomotion.  It  follows  the  wishes  of 
its  inhabitants,  and  goes  with  them,  a  travelling 
home,  as  the  spirit  moves  them  to  explore  the 
wilderness.  At  their  pleasure,  new  beds  of  wild 
flowers  surround  it,  new  plantations  of  trees  over 
shadow  it,  and  new  avenues  of  shining  water  lead 
to  its  ever-open  door.  What  the  tent  lacks  in 
luxury  it  makes  up  in  liberty:  or  rather  let  us  say 
that  liberty  itself  is  the  greatest  luxury. 

Another  thing  is  worth  remembering — a  family 
which  lives  in  a  tent  never  can  have  a  skeleton  in 
the  closet. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  every  spot  in 
the  woods  is  suitable  for  a  camp,  or  that  a  good 
tenting-ground  can  be  chosen  without  knowledge 
and  forethought.  One  of  the  requisites,  indeed, 
is  to  be  found  everywhere  in  the  St.  John  region; 


34  Memories  and  Pictures 

for  all  the  lakes  and  rivers  are  full  of  clear,  cool 
water,  and  the  traveller  does  not  need  to  search 
for  a  spring.  But  it  is  always  necessary  to  look 
carefully  for  a  bit  of  smooth  ground  on  the  shore, 
far  enough  above  the  water  to  be  dry,  and  slightly 
sloping,  so  that  the  head  of  the  bed  may  be  higher 
than  the  foot.  Above  all,  it  must  be  free  from  big 
stones  and  serpentine  roots  of  trees.  A  root  that 
looks  no  bigger  than  an  inch-worm  in  the  daytime 
assumes  the  proportions  of  a  boa-constrictor  at 
midnight — when  you  find  it  under  your  hip-bone. 
There  should  also  be  plenty  of  evergreens  near  at 
hand  for  the  beds.  Spruce  will  answer  at  a  pinch  ; 
it  has  an  aromatic  smell;  but  it  is  too  stiff  and 
humpy.  Hemlock  is  smoother  and  more  flexible; 
but  the  spring  soon  wears  out  of  it.  The  balsam-fir, 
with  its  elastic  branches  and  thick  flat  needles,  is 
the  best  of  all.  A  bed  of  these  boughs  a  foot 
deep  is  softer  than  a  mattress  and  as  fragrant  as  a 
thousand  Christmas-trees.  Two  things  more  are 
needed  for  the  ideal  camp-ground — an  open  situa 
tion,  where  the  breeze  will  drive  away  the  flies  and 
mosquitoes,  and  an  abundance  of  dry  firewood 
within  easy  reach.  Yes,  and  a  third  thing  must 
not  be  forgotten,  for,  says  my  lady  Greygown : 

"I  shouldn't  feel  at  home  in  camp  unless  I  could 
sit  in  the  door  of  the  tent  and  look  out  across 
flowing  water." 

All  these  conditions  are  met  in  our  favorite 
camping  place  below  the  first  fall  in  the  Grande 
Decharge.  A  rocky  point  juts  out  into  the  river 


Camping  Out  35 

and  makes  a  fine  landing  for  the  canoes.  There 
is  a  dismantled  fishing-cabin  a  few  rods  back  in 
the  woods,  from  which  we  can  borrow  boards  for 
a  table  and  chairs.  A  group  of  cedars  on  the 
lower  edge  of  the  point  opens  just  wide  enough 
to  receive  and  shelter  our  tent.  At  a  good  distance 
beyond  ours,  the  guides'  tent  is  pitched;  and  the 
big  camp-fire  burns  between  the  two  dwellings.  A 
pair  of  white-birches  lift  their  leafy  crowns  far 
above  us,  and  after  them  we  name  the  place. 

What  an  admirable,  lovable,  and  comfortable  tree 
is  the  white-birch,  the  silver  queen  of  the  forest, 
beautiful  to  look  upon  and  full  of  various  uses.  Its 
wood  is  strong  to  make  paddles  and  axe  handles, 
and  glorious  to  burn,  blazing  up  at  first  with  a 
flashing  flame,  and  then  holding  the  fire  in  its 
glowing  heart  all  through  the  night.  Its  bark  is 
the  most  serviceable  of  all  the  products  of  the 
wilderness.  In  Russia,  they  say,  it  is  used  in  tan 
ning,  and  gives  its  subtle,  sacerdotal  fragrance  to 
Russia  leather.  But  here,  in  the  woods,  it  serves 
more  primitive  ends.  It  can  be  peeled  off  in  a  huge 
roll  from  some  giant  tree  and  fashioned  into  a  swift 
canoe  to  carry  man  over  the  waters.  It  can  be 
cut  into  square  sheets  to  roof  his  shanty  in  the 
forest.  It  is  the  paper  on  which  he  writes  his 
woodland  despatches,  and  the  flexible  material 
which  he  bends  into  drinking-cups  of  silver  lined 
with  gold.  A  thin  strip  of  it  wrapped  around  the 
end  of  a  candle  and  fastened  in  a  cleft  stick  makes 
a  practicable  chandelier,  A  basket  for  berries,  a 


36  Memories  and  Pictures 

horn  to  call  the  lovelorn  moose  through  the 
autumnal  woods,  a  canvas  on  which  to  draw  the 
outline  of  great  and  memorable  fish — all  these  and 
many  other  indispensable  luxuries  are  stored  up 
for  the  skilful  woodsman  in  the  birch  bark. 

Only  do  not  rob  or  mar  the  tree  unless  you 
really  need  what  it  has  to  give  you.  Let  it  stand 
and  grow  in  virgin  majesty,  ungirdled  and  un- 
scarred,  while  the  trunk  becomes  a  firm  pillar  of 
the  forest  temple,  and  the  branches  spread  abroad 
a  refuge  of  bright  green  leaves  for  the  birds  of 
the  air.  Nature  never  made  a  more  excellent  piece 
of  handiwork. 


IV 

A    LITTLE    FISHING 

The  chief  occupation  of  our  idle  days  was  fishing. 
Above  the  camp  spread  a  noble  pool  more  than 
two  miles  in  circumference,  and  diversified  with 
smooth  bays  and  whirling  eddies,  sand  beaches  and 
rocky  islands.  The  river  poured  into  it  at  the 
head,  foaming  and  raging,  and  swept  out  of  it  just 
in  front  of  our  camp  in  a  merry,  musical  rapid.  It 
was  full  of  fish  of  various  kinds — long-nosed  pick 
erel,  wall-eyed  pike,  and  stupid  chub.  But  the 
prince  of  the  pool  was  the  fighting  ouananiche,*  the 
land-locked  salmon  of  St.  John. 

*  Pronounce  "  wan-an'i-sh." 


Camping  Out  37 

Every  morning  and  evening,  Greygown  and  I 
would  go  out  for  ouananiche,  and  sometimes  we 
caught  plenty  and  sometimes  few,  but  we  never 
came  back  without  a  good  catch  of  happiness. 
There  were  certain  places  where  the  fish  liked  to 
stay.  For  example,  we  always  looked  for  one  at 
the  lower  corner  of  a  big  rock,  very  close  to  it, 
where  he  could  poise  himself  easily  on  the  edge 
of  the  strong  downward  stream.  Another  likely 
place  was  a  straight  run  of  water,  swift,  but  not 
too  swift,  with  a  sunken  stone  in  the  middle.  The 
ouananiche  does  not  like  crooked,  twisting  water. 
An  even  current  is  far  more  comfortable,  for  then 
he  discovers  just  how  much  effort  is  needed  to 
balance  against  it,  and  keeps  up  the  movement 
mechanically,  as  if  he  were  half  asleep.  But  his 
favorite  place  is  under  one  of  the  floating  islands 
of  thick  foam  that  gather  in  the  corners  below  the 
falls.  The  matted  flakes  give  a  grateful  shelter 
from  the  sun,  I  fancy,  and  almost  all  game-fish  love 
to  lie  in  the  shade;  but  the  chief  reason  why  the 
ouananiche  haunt  the  drifting  white  mass  is  be 
cause  it  is  full  of  flies  and  gnats,  beaten  down  by 
the  spray  of  the  cataract,  and  sprinkled  all  through 
the  foam  like  plums  in  a  cake.  To  this  natural 
confection  the  little  salmon,  lurking  in  his  corner, 
plays  the  part  of  Jack  Horner  all  day  long,  and 
never  wearies. 

"See  that  foam  down  below  there!"  said  Ferdi 
nand,  as  we  scrambled  over  the  huge  rocks  at 
the  foot  of  the  falls;  "there  ought  to  be  salmon 


38  Memories  and  Pictures 

there."  Yes,  there  were  the  sharp  noses  picking 
out  the  unfortunate  insects,  and  the  broad  tails 
waving  lazily  through  the  foam  as  the  fish  turned 
in  the  water.  At  this  season  of  the  year,  when 
summer  is  nearly  ended,  and  every  ouananiche  in 
the  river  has  tasted  feathers  and  seen  a  hook,  it 
is  useless  to  attempt  to  delude  them  with  the  large 
gaudy  flies  which  the  fishing-tackle-maker  recom 
mends.  There  are  only  two  successful  methods  of 
angling  now.  The  first  of  these  I  tried,  and  by 
casting  delicately  with  a  tiny  brown  trout-fly  tied 
on  a  gossamer  strand  of  gut,  captured  a  pair  of 
fish  weighing  about  three  pounds  each.  They 
fought  against  the  spring  of  the  four-ounce  rod 
for  nearly  half  an  hour  before  Ferdinand  could 
slip  the  net  around  them.  But  there  was  another 
and  a  broader  tail  still  waving  disdainfully  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  foam.  "And  now,"  said  the  gal 
lant  Ferdinand,  "the  turn  is  to  madame,  that  she 
should  prove  her  fortune — attend  but  a  moment, 
madame,  while  I  seek  the  bait." 

This  was  the  second  method :  a  grasshopper  was 
attached  to  the  hook,  and  casting  the  line  well  out 
across  the  pool,  Ferdinand  put  the  rod  into  Grey- 
gown's  hands.  She  stood  poised  upon  a  pinnacle 
of  rock,  like  patience  on  a  monument,  waiting  for 
a  bite.  It  came.  There  was  a  slow,  gentle  pull 
at  the  line,  answered  by  a  quick  jerk  of  the  rod, 
and  a  noble  fish  flashed  into  the  air.  Four  pounds 
and  a  half  at  least!  He  leaped  again  and  again, 
shaking  the  drops  from  his  silvery  sides.  He 


Camping  Out  39 

rushed  up  the  rapids  as  if  he  had  determined  to 
return  to  the  lake,  and  down  again  as  if  he  had 
changed  his  plans  and  determined  to  go  to  the 
Saguenay.  He  sulked  in  the  deep  water  and  rubbed 
his  nose  against  the  rocks.  He  did  his  best  to 
treat  that  treacherous  grasshopper  as  the  whale 
served  Jonah.  But  Greygown,  through  all  her  little 
screams  and  shouts  of  excitement,  was  steady  and 
sage.  She  never  gave  the  fish  an  inch  of  slack 
line ;  and  at  last  he  lay  glittering  on  the  rocks,  with 
the  black  St.  Andrew's  crosses  clearly  marked  on 
his  plump  sides,  and  the  iridescent  spots  gleaming 
on  his  small,  shapely  head.  "A  beauty!"  cried 
Ferdinand,  as  he  held  up  the  fish  in  triumph,  "and 
it  is  madame  who  has  the  good  fortune.  She 
understands  well  to  take  the  large  fish — is  it  not?" 
Greygown  stepped  demurely  down  from  her  pin 
nacle,  and  as  we  drifted  down  the  pool  in  the 
canoe,  under  the  mellow  evening  sky,  her  conversa 
tion  betrayed  not  a  trace  of  the  pride  that  a  vic 
torious  fisherman  would  have  shown.  On  the 
contrary,  she  insisted  that  angling  was  an  affair  of 
chance — which  was  consoling,  though  I  knew  it  was 
not  altogether  true — and  that  the  smaller  fish  were 
just  as  pleasant  to  catch  and  better  to  eat,  after  all. 


40  Memories  and  Pictures 

V 

MORNING    AND    EVENING 

Our  tent  is  on  the  border  of  a  coppice  of  young 
trees.  It  is  pleasant  to  be  awakened  by  a  convoca 
tion  of  birds  at  sunrise,  and  to  watch  the  shadows 
of  the  leaves  dance  out  upon  our  translucent  roof 
of  canvas. 

All  the  birds  in  the  bush  are  early,  but  there  are 
so  many  of  them  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
every  one  can  be  rewarded  with  a  worm.  Here  in 
Canada  those  little  people  of  the  air  who  appear 
as  transient  guests  of  spring  and  autumn  in  the 
Middle  States,  are  in  their  summer  home  and 
breeding-place.  Warblers,  named  for  the  magnolia 
and  the  myrtle,  chestnut-sided,  bay-breasted,  blue- 
backed,  and  black-throated,  flutter  and  creep  along 
the  branches  with  simple  lisping  music.  Kinglets, 
ruby-crowned  and  golden-crowned,  tiny,  brilliant 
sparks  of  life,  twitter  among  the  trees,  breaking 
occasionally  into  clearer,  sweeter  songs.  Companies 
of  redpoles  and  cross-bills  pass  chirping  through 
the  thickets,  busily  seeking  their  food.  The  fear 
less,  familiar  chickadee  repeats  his  name  merrily, 
while  he  leads  his  family  to  explore  every  nook 
and  cranny  of  the  wood.  Cedar  wax-wings,  sociable 
wanderers,  arrive  in  numerous  flocks.  The  Cana 
dians  call  them  "recollets,"  because  they  wear  a 
brown  crest  of  the  same  color  as  the  hoods  of  the 
monks  who  came  with  the  first  settlers  to  New 


Camping  Out  41 

France.  They  are  a  songless  tribe,  although  their 
quick,  reiterated  call  as  they  take  to  flight  has 
given  them  the  name  of  chatterers.  The  beautiful 
tree-sparrows  and  the  pine-siskins  are  more  melodi 
ous,  and  the  slate-colored  juncos,  flitting  about  the 
camp,  are  as  garrulous  as  chippy-birds.  All  these 
varied  notes  come  and  go  through  the  tangle  of 
morning  dreams.  And  now  the  noisy  blue-jay  is 
calling  "Thief — thief — thief!"  in  the  distance,  and 
a  pair  of  great  pileated  woodpeckers  with  crimson 
crests  are  laughing  loudly  in  the  swamp  over  some 
family  joke.  But  listen !  what  is  that  harsh  creak 
ing  note?  It  is  the  cry  of  the  northern  shrike,  of 
whom  tradition  says  that  he  catches  little  birds 
and  impales  them  on  sharp  thorns.  At  the  sound 
of  his  voice  the  concert  closes  suddenly  and  the 
singers  vanish  into  thin  air.  The  hour  of  music  is 
over;  the  commonplace  of  day  has  begun.  And 
there  is  my  lady  Greygown,  already  up  and  dressed, 
standing  by  the  breakfast-table  and  laughing  at  my 
belated  appearance. 

When  the  long,  happy  day  is  over,  just  before 
sundown  we  go  for  a  little  walk  along  the  portage 
and  up  the  hill  behind  the  camp.  There  are 
blueberries  growing  abundantly  among  the  rocks — 
huge  clusters  of  them,  bloomy  and  luscious  as  the 
grapes  of  Eshcol.  The  blueberry  is  Nature's  com 
pensation  for  the  ruin  of  forest  fires.  It  grows 
best  where  the  woods  have  been  burned  away  and 
the  soil  is  too  poor  to  raise  another  crop  of  trees. 


42  Memories  and  Pictures 

And  here  is  a  bed  of  moss  beside  a  dashing  rivu 
let,  inviting  us  to  rest  and  be  thankful.  Hark! 
There  is  a  white-throated  sparrow,  on  a  little  tree 
across  the  river,  whistling  his  sunset  song 

"  In  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out." 


Down  in  Maine  they  call  him  the  Peabody-bird, 
because  his  notes  sound  to  them  like  Old  man — 
Peabody,  peabody,  peabody.  In  New  Brunswick 
the  Scotch  settlers  say  that  he  sings  Lost — lost — 
Kennedy,  kennedy,  kennedy.  But  here  in  his  north 
ern  home  I  think  we  can  understand  him  better. 
He  is  singing  again  and  again,  with  a  cadence  that 
never  wearies,  "Sweet — sweet — Canada,  Canada, 
Canada!"  The  Canadians,  when  they  came  across 
the  sea,  remembering  the  nightingale  of  southern 
France,  baptized  this  little  gray  minstrel  with  his 
name,  and  the  country  ballads  are  full  of  his 
praise.  Every  land  has  its  nightingale,  if  we  only 
have  the  heart  to  hear  him.  How  distinct  his  voice 
is — how  personal,  how  confidential,  as  if  he  had  a 
message  for  us! 

There  is  a  breath  of  fragrance  on  the  cool  shady 
air  beside  our  little  stream,  that  seems  familiar. 
It  is  the  first  week  of  September.  Can  it  be  that 
the  twin-flower  of  June  is  blooming  again?  Yes, 
here  is  the  threadlike  stem  lifting  its  two  frail  pink 
bells  above  the  bed  of  shining  leaves.  How  dear  an 
early  flower  seems  when  it  comes  back  again  and 
unfolds  its  beauty  in  a  St.  Martin's  summer !  How 


Camping  Out  43 

delicate  and  suggestive  is  the  faint,  magical  odor! 
It  is  like  a  renewal  of  the  dreams  of  youth. 

"And  need  we  ever  grow  old?"  asked  my  lady 
Grey  gown,  as  she  sat  that  evening  with  the  twin- 
flower  on  her  breast,  watching  the  stars  come  out 
along  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  and  tremble  on  the 
hurrying  tide  of  the  river.  "Must  we  grow  old  as 
well  as  gray  ?  Is  the  time  coming  when  all  life  will 
be  commonplace  and  practical,  and  governed  by  a 
dull  'of  course'?  Shall  we  not  always  find  adven 
tures  and  romances,  and  a  few  blossoms  returning, 
even  when  the  season  grows  late?" 

"At  least,"  I  answered,  "let  us  believe  in  the  pos 
sibility,  for  to  doubt  it  is  to  destroy  it.  If  we  can 
only  come  back  to  nature  together  every  year,  and 
consider  the  flowers  and  the  birds,  we  shall  die 
young,  even  though  we  live  long:  we  shall  have  a 
treasure  of  memories  which  will  be  like  the  twin- 
flower,  always  a  double  blossom  on  a  single  stem, 
and  carry  with  us  into  the  unseen  world  some 
thing  which  will  make  it  worth  while  to  be  im 
mortal." 


THE  OPEN  FIRE 
I 

LIGHTING  UP 

MAN  is  the  animal  that  has  made  friends  with 
the  fire. 

All  the  other  creatures,  in  their  natural  state,  are 
afraid  of  it.  They  look  upon  it  with  wonder  and 
dismay.  It  fascinates  them,  sometimes,  with  its 
glittering  eyes  in  the  night.  The  squirrels  and  the 
hares  come  pattering  softly  toward  it  through  the 
underbrush  around  the  new  camp.  The  deer  stands 
staring  into  the  blaze  of  the  jack  while  the  hunter's 
canoe  creeps  through  the  lily-pads.  But  the  charm 
that  masters  them  is  one  of  dread,  not  of  love.  It  is 
the  witchcraft  of  the  serpent's  lambent  look.  When 
they  know  what  it  means,  when  the  heat  of  the  fire 
touches  them,  or  even  when  its  smell  comes  clearly 
to  their  most  delicate  sense,  they  recognize  it  as 
their  enemy,  the  Wild  Huntsman  whose  red  hounds 
can  follow,  follow  for  days  without  wearying, 
growing  stronger  and  more  furious  with  every  turn 
of  the  chase.  Let  but  a  trail  of  smoke  drift  down 
the  wind  across  the  forest,  and  all  the  game  for 
miles  and  miles  will  catch  the  signal  for  fear  and 
flight. 

44 


The  Open  Fire  45 

Many  of  the  animals  have  learned  how  to  make 
houses  for  themselves.  The  cabane  of  the  beaver 
is  a  wonder  of  neatness  and  comfort,  much  prefer 
able  to  the  wigwam  of  his  Indian  hunter.  The 
muskrat  knows  how  thick  and  high  to  build  the 
dome  of  his  water-side  cottage,  in  order  to  protect 
himself  against  the  frost  of  the  coming  winter  and 
the  floods  of  the  following  spring.  The  wood- 
chuck's  house  has  two  or  three  doors;  and  the 
squirrel's  dwelling  is  provided  with  a  good  bed  and 
a  convenient  storehouse  for  nuts  and  acorns.  The 
sportive  otters  have  a  toboggan  slide  in  front  of 
their  residence ;  and  the  moose  in  winter  make  a 
"yard,"  where  they  can  take  exercise  comfortably 
and  find  shelter  for  sleep.  But  there  is  one  thing 
lacking  in  all  these  various  dwellings — a  fireplace. 

Man  is  the  only  creature  that  dares  to  light  a 
fire  and  to  live  with  it.  The  reason?  Because  he 
alone  has  learned  how  to  put  it  out. 

It  is  true  that  two  of  his  humbler  friends  have 
been  converted  to  fire-worship.  The  dog  and  the 
cat,  being  half-humanized,  have  begun  to  love  the 
fire.  I  suppose  that  a  cat  seldom  comes  so  near  to 
feeling  a  true  sense  of  affection  as  when  she  has 
finished  her  saucer  of  bread  and  milk,  and  stretched 
herself  luxuriously  underneath  the  kitchen  stove, 
while  her  faithful  mistress  washes  up  the  dishes. 
As  for  a  dog,  I  am  sure  that  his  admiring  love 
for  his  master  is  never  greater  than  when  they  come 
in  together  from  the  hunt,  wet  and  tired,  and  the 
man  gathers  a  pile  of  wood  in  front  of  the  tent, 


46  Memories  and  Pictures 

touches  it  with  a  tiny  magic  wand,  and  suddenly 
the  clear,  consoling  flame  springs  up,  saying  cheer 
fully,  "Here  we  are,  at  home  in  the  forest;  come 
into  the  warmth;  rest,  and  eat,  and  sleep."  When 
the  weary,  shivering  dog  sees  this  miracle,  he 
knows  that  his  master  is  a  great  man  and  a  lord 
of  things. 

After  all,  that  is  the  only  real  open  fire.  Wood 
is  the  fuel  for  it.  Out-of-doors  is  the  place  for  it. 
A  furnace  is  an  underground  prison  for  a  toiling 
slave.  A  stove  is  a  cage  for  a  tame  bird.  Even  a 
broad  hearthstone  and  a  pair  of  glittering  andirons 
— the  best  ornament  of  a  room — must  be  accepted 
as  an  imitation  of  the  real  thing.  The  veritable 
open  fire  is  built  in  the  open,  with  the  whole  earth 
for  a  fireplace  and  the  sky  for  a  chimney. 

To  start  a  fire  in  the  open  is  by  no  means  as  easy 
as  it  looks.  It  is  one  of  those  simple  tricks  that 
everyone  thinks  he  can  perform  until  he  tries  it. 
If,  perhaps,  you  have  to  do  it  in  the  rain,  with  a 
single  match,  it  requires  no  little  art  and  skill. 

There  is  plenty  of  wood  everywhere,  but  not  a 
bit  to  burn.  The  fallen  trees  are  water-logged. 
The  dead  leaves  are  as  damp  as  grief.  The  charred 
sticks  that  you  find  in  an  old  fireplace  are  ab 
solutely  incombustible.  Do  not  trust  the  handful 
of  withered  twigs  and  branches  that  you  gather 
from  the  spruce-trees.  They  seem  dry,  but  they  are 
little  better  for  your  purpose  than  so  much  asbestos. 
You  make  a  pile  of  them  in  some  apparently  suit 
able  hollow,  and  lay  a  few  larger  sticks  on  top. 


"The  little  friendship  fire." 


The  Open  Fire  47 

Then  you  hastily  scratch  your  solitary  match  on 
the  seat  of  your  trousers  and  thrust  it  into  the  pile 
of  twigs.  What  happens  ?  The  wind  whirls  around 
in  your  stupid  little  hollow,  and  the  blue  flame  of 
the  sulphur  spurts  and  sputters  for  an  instant,  and 
then  goes  out.  Or  perhaps  there  is  a  moment  of 
stillness;  the  match  flares  up  bravely;  the  nearest 
twigs  catch  fire,  crackling  and  sparkling;  you 
hurriedly  lay  on  more  sticks;  but  the  fire  deliber 
ately  dodges  them,  creeps  to  the  corner  of  the  pile 
where  the  twigs  are  fewest  and  dampest,  snaps 
feebly  a  few  times,  and  expires  in  smoke.  Now 
where  are  you  ?  How  far  is  it  to  the  nearest  match  ? 
If  you  are  wise,  you  will  always  make  your  fire 
before  you  light  it.  Time  is  never  saved  by  doing 
a  thing  badly. 


II 

THE     CAMP-FIRE 

In  the  making  of  fires  there  is  as  much  difference 
as  in  the  building  of  houses.  Everything  depends 
upon  the  purpose  that  you  have  in  view.  There  is 
the  camp-fire,  and  the  cooking-fire,  and  the  smudge- 
fire,  and  the  little  friendship-fire — not  to  speak  of 
other  minor  varieties.  Each  of  these  has  its  own 
proper  style  of  architecture,  and  to  mix  them  is 
false  art  and  poor  economy. 

The  object  of  the  camp-fire  is  to  give  heat,  and 


48  Memories  and  Pictures 

incidentally  light,  to  your  tent  or  shanty.  You  can 
hardly  build  this  kind  of  a  fire  unless  you  have  a 
good  axe  and  know  how  to  chop.  For  the  first 
thing  that  you  need  is  a  solid  back-log,  the  thicker 
the  better,  to  hold  the  heat  and  reflect  it  into  the 
tent.  This  log  must  not  be  too  dry,  or  it  will  burn 
out  quickly.  Neither  must  it  be  too  damp,  else  it 
will  smoulder  and  discourage  the  fire.  The  best 
wood  for  it  is  the  body  of  a  yellow  birch,  and,  next 
to  that,  a  green  balsam.  It  should  be  five  or  six  feet 
long,  and  at  least  two  and  a  half  feet  in  diameter. 
If  you  cannot  find  a  tree  thick  enough,  cut  two  or 
three  lengths  of  a  smaller  one ;  lay  the  thickest  log 
on  the  ground  first,  about  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  front 
of  the  tent;  drive  two  strong  stakes  behind  it, 
slanting  a  little  backward;  and  lay  the  other  logs 
on  top  of  the  first,  resting  against  the  stakes. 

Now  you  are  ready  for  the  hand-chunks,  or 
andirons.  These  are  shorter  sticks  of  wood,  eight 
or  ten  inches  thick,  laid  at  right  angles  to  the  back 
log,  four  or  five  feet  apart.  Across  these  you  are 
to  build  up  the  firewood  proper. 

Use  a  dry  spruce-tree,  not  one  that  has  fallen,  but 
one  that  is  dead  and  still  standing,  if  you  want  a 
lively,  snapping  fire.  Use  a  hard  maple  or  a 
hickory  if  you  want  a  fire  that  will  burn  steadily 
and  make  few  sparks.  But  if  you  like  a  fire  to 
blaze  up  at  first  with  a  splendid  flame,  and  then 
burn  on  with  an  enduring  heat  far  into  the  night, 
a  young  white  birch  with  the  bark  on  is  the  tree 
to  choose.  Six  or  eight  round  sticks  of  this  laid 


The  Open  Fire  49 

across  the  hand-chunks,  with  perhaps  a  few  quar- 
terings  of  a  larger  tree,  will  make  a  glorious  fire. 

But  before  you  put  these  on,  you  must  be  ready 
to  light  up.  A  few  splinters  of  dry  spruce  or  pine 
or  balsam,  stood  endwise  against  the  back-log,  or, 
better  still,  piled  up  in  a  pyramid  between  the  hand- 
chunks;  a  few  strips  of  birch  bark,  and  one  good 
match — these  are  all  that  you  want.  But  be  sure 
that  your  match  is  a  good  one.  You  would  better 
see  to  this  before  you  go  into  the  brush.  Your 
comfort,  even  your  life,  may  depend  on  it. 

In  the  woods,  the  old-fashioned  brimstone  match 
of  our  grandfathers — the  match  with  a  brown  head 
and  a  stout  stick  and  a  dreadful  smell — is  the  best. 
But  if  you  have  only  one,  you  would  better  not 
trust  even  that  to  light  your  fire  directly.  Use  it 
first  to  touch  off  a  roll  of  birch  bark  which  you  hold 
in  your  hand.  Then,  when  the  bark  is  well  alight, 
crinkling  and  curling,  push  it  under  the  heap  of 
kindlings,  give  the  flame  time  to  take  a  good  hold, 
and  lay  your  wood  over  it,  a  stick  at  a  time,  until 
the  whole  pile  is  blazing.  Now  your  fire  is  started. 
Your  friendly  little  gnome  with  the  red  hair  is 
ready  to  serve  you  through  the  night. 

He  will  dry  your  clothes  if  you  are  wet.  He 
will  cheer  you  up  if  you  are  despondent.  He  will 
diffuse  an  air  of  sociability  through  the  camp,  and 
draw  the  men  together  in  a  half  circle  for  story 
telling  and  jokes  and  singing.  He  will  hold  a  flam 
beau  for  you  while  you  spread  your  blankets  on  the 
boughs  and  dress  for  bed.  He  will  keep  you  warm 


50  Memories  and  Pictures 

while  you  sleep — at  least  till  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  when  you  dream  that  you  are  out 
sleighing  in  your  pajamas,  and  wake  up  with  a 
shiver. 


Ill 

THE    LITTLE    FRIENDSHIP-FIRE 

There  are  times  and  seasons  when  the  angler  has 
no  need  of  the  camp-fire,  or  the  smudge-fire,  or  the 
cooking-fire.  He  sleeps  in  a  house.  His  breakfast 
and  dinner  are  cooked  for  him  in  a  kitchen.  He  is 
in  no  great  danger  from  black-flies  or  mosquitoes. 
All  he  needs  now,  as  he  sets  out  to  spend  a  day  on 
the  Neversink,  or  the  Willowemoc,  or  the  Shepaug, 
or  the  Swiftwater,  is  a  good  lunch  in  his  pocket, 
and  a  little  friendship-fire  to  burn  pleasantly  beside 
him  while  he  eats  his  frugal  fare  and  prolongs  his 
noonday  rest. 

This  form  of  fire  does  less  work  than  any  other 
in  the  world.  Yet  it  is  far  from  being  useless ;  and 
I,  for  one,  should  be  sorry  to  live  without  it.  Its 
only  use  is  to  make  a  visible  centre  of  interest 
where  there  are  two  or  three  anglers  eating  their 
lunch  together,  or  to  supply  a  kind  of  companion 
ship  to  a  lone  fisherman.  It  is  kindled  and  burns 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  give  you  the  sense  of 
being  at  home  and  at  ease.  Why  the  fire  should 
do  this,  I  cannot  tell,  but  it  does. 

You   may  build  your   friendship-fire   in   almost 


The  Open  Fire  51 

any  way  that  pleases  you;  but  this  is  the  way  in 
which  you  shall  build  it  best.  You  have  no  axe, 
of  course,  so  you  must  look  about  for  the  driest 
sticks  that  you  can  find.  Do  not  seek  them  close 
beside  the  stream,  for  there  they  are  likely  to  be 
water-soaked ;  but  go  back  into  the  woods  a  bit 
and  gather  a  good  armful  of  fuel.  Then  break  it, 
if  you  can,  into  lengths  of  about  two  feet,  and  con 
struct  your  fire  in  the  following  fashion. 

Lay  two  sticks  parallel,  and  put  between  them 
a  pile  of  dried  grass,  dead  leaves,  small  twigs,  and 
the  paper  in  which  your  lunch  was  wrapped.  Then 
lay  two  other  sticks  crosswise  on  top  of  your  first 
pair.  Strike  your  match  and  touch  your  kindlings. 
As  the  fire  catches,  lay  on  other  pairs  of  sticks,  each 
pair  crosswise  to  the  pair  that  is  below  it,  until 
you  have  a  pyramid  of  flame.  This  is  "a  Micmac 
fire"  such  as  the  Indians  make  in  the  woods. 

Now  you  can  pull  off  your  wading-boots  and 
warm  your  feet  at  the  blaze.  You  can  toast  your 
bread  if  you  like.  You  can  even  make  shift  to 
broil  one  of  your  trout,  fastened  on  the  end  of  a 
birch  twig  if  you  have  a  fancy  that  way.  When 
your  hunger  is  satisfied,  you  shake  out  the  crumbs 
for  the  birds  and  the  squirrels,  settle  down  for  an 
hour's  reading  if  you  have  a  book  in  your  pocket, 
or  for  a  good  talk  if  you  have  a  comrade  with  you. 

The  stream  of  time  flows  swift  and  smooth,  by 
such  a  fire  as  this.  The  moments  slip  past  un 
heeded;  the  sun  sinks  down  his  western  arch;  the 
shadows  begin  to  fall  across  the  brook;  it  is  time 


52  Memories  and  Pictures 

to  move  on  for  the  afternoon  fishing.  The  fire  has 
almost  burned  out.  But  do  not  trust  it  too  much. 
Throw  some  sand  over  it,  or  bring  a  hatful  of 
water  from  the  brook  to  pour  on  it,  until  you  are 
sure  that  the  last  glowing  ember  is  extinguished, 
and  nothing  but  the  black  coals  and  the  charred 
ends  of  the  sticks  are  left. 

Even  the  little  friendship-fire  must  keep  the  law 
of  the  bush.  All  lights  out  when  their  purpose  is 
fulfilled! 


IV 

ALTARS   OF  REMEMBRANCE 

It  is  a  question  that  we  have  often  debated,  in 
the  informal  meetings  of  our  Petrine  Club:  Which 
is  pleasanter — to  fish  an  old  stream  or  a  new  one? 

The  younger  members  are  all  for  the  "fresh 
woods  and  pastures  new."  They  speak  of  the 
delight  of  turning  off  from  the  high-road  into  some 
faintly  marked  trail ;  following  it  blindly  through 
the  forest,  not  knowing  how  far  you  have  to  go; 
hearing  the  voice  of  waters  sounding  through  the 
woodland;  leaving  the  path  impatiently  and  strik 
ing  straight  across  the  underbrush ;  scrambling 
down  a  steep  bank,  pushing  through  a  thicket  of 
alders,  and  coming  out  suddenly,  face  to  face  with 
a  beautiful,  strange  brook.  It  reminds  you,  of 
course,  of  some  old  friend.  It  is  a  little  like  the 


The  Open  Fire  53 

Beaverkill,  or  the  Ausable,  or  the  Gale  River.  And 
yet  it  is  different.  Every  stream  has  its  own  char 
acter  and  disposition.  Your  new  acquaintance  in 
vites  you  to  a  day  of  discoveries.  If  the  water 
is  high,  you  will  follow  it  down,  and  have  easy 
fishing.  If  the  water  is  low,  you  will  go  upstream, 
and  fish  "fine  and  far-off."  Every  turn  in  the 
avenue  which  the  little  river  has  made  for  you 
opens  up  a  new  view — a  rocky  gorge  where  the 
deep  pools  are  divided  by  white-footed  falls;  a 
lofty  forest  where  the  shadows  are  deep  and  the 
trees  arch  overhead;  a  flat,  sunny  stretch  where 
the  stream  is  spread  out,  and  pebbly  islands  divide 
the  channels,  and  the  big  fish  are  lurking  at  the 
sides  in  the  sheltered  corners  under  the  bushes. 
From  scene  to  scene  you  follow  on,  delighted  and 
expectant,  until  the  night  suddenly  drops  its  veil, 
and  then  you  will  be  lucky  if  you  can  find  your 
way  home  in  the  dark ! 

Yes,  it  is  all  very  good,  this  exploration  of  new 
streams.  But,  for  my  part,  I  like  still  better  to 
go  back  to  a  familiar  little  river,  and  fish  or  dream 
along  the  banks  where  I  have  dreamed  and  fished 
before.  I  know  every  bend  and  curve:  the  sharp 
turn,  where  the  water  runs  under  the  roots  of  the 
old  hemlock-tree;  the  snaky  glen,  where  the  alders 
stretch  their  arms  far  out  across  the  stream;  the 
meadow  reach,  where  the  trout  are  fat  and  silvery, 
and  will  only  rise  about  sunrise  or  sundown,  unless 
the  day  is  cloudy;  the  Naiad's  Elbow,  where  the 
brook  rounds  itself,  smooth  and  dimpled,  to  em- 


54  Memories  and  Pictures 

brace  a  cluster  of  pink  laurel-bushes.  All  these  I 
know;  yes,  and  almost  every  current  and  eddy  and 
backwater  I  know  long  before  I  come  to  it.  I 
remember  where  I  caught  the  big  trout  the  first 
year  I  came  to  the  stream;  and  where  I  lost  a 
bigger  one.  I  remember  the  pool  where  there  were 
plenty  of  good  fish  last  year,  and  wonder  whether 
they  are  there  now. 

Better  things  than  these  I  remember:  the  com 
panions  with  whom  I  have  followed  the  stream 
in  days  long  past;  the  rendezvous  with  a  comrade 
at  the  place  where  the  rustic  bridge  crosses  the 
brook;  the  hours  of  sweet  converse  beside  the 
friendship-fire;  the  meeting  at  twilight  with  my 
lady  Greygown  and  the  children,  who  have  come 
down  by  the  wood-road  to  walk  home  with  me. 

Surely  it  is  pleasant  to  follow  an  old  stream. 
Flowers  grow  along  its  banks  which  are  not  to 
be  found  anywhere  else  in  the  wide  world.  "There 
is  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance;  and  there  is 
pansies,  that's  for  thoughts!" 

One  May  evening,  a  couple  of  years  since,  I  was 
angling  in  the  Swiftwater,  and  came  upon  Joseph 
Jefferson,  stretched  out  on  a  large  rock  in  mid 
stream,  and  casting  the  fly  down  a  long  pool.  He 
had  passed  the  threescore  years  and  ten,  but  he 
was  as  eager  and  as  happy  as  a  boy  in  his  fishing. 

"You  here!"  I  cried.  "What  good  fortune 
brought  you  into  these  waters?" 

"Ah,"  he  answered,  "I  fished  this  brook  forty- 
five  years  ago.  It  was  in  the  Paradise  Valley  that 


The  Open  Fire  55 

I  first  thought  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  I  wanted  to 
come  back  again,  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  an  open  fire? 
I  will  tell  you.  It  is  at  the  places  along  the  stream, 
where  the  little  flames  of  love  and  friendship  have 
been  kindled  in  bygone  days,  that  the  past  returns 
most  vividly.  These  are  the  altars  of  remem 
brance. 

It  is  strange  how  long  a  small  fire  will  leave  its 
mark.  The  charred  sticks,  the  black  coals,  do  not 
decay  easily.  If  they  lie  well  up  the  bank,  out  of 
reach  of  the  spring  floods,  they  will  stay  there  for 
years.  If  you  have  chanced  to  build  a  rough  fire 
place  of  stones  from  the  brook,  it  seems  almost  as 
if  it  would  last  forever. 

There  is  a  mossy  knoll  beneath  a  great  butter 
nut-tree  on  the  Swiftwater  where  such  a  fireplace 
was  built  four  years  ago;  and  whenever  I  come 
to  that  place  now  I  lay  the  rod  aside,  and  sit  down 
for  a  little  while  by  the  fast-flowing  water,  and 
remember. 

This  is  what  I  see :  A  man  wading  up  the  stream, 
with  a  creel  over  his  shoulder,  and  perhaps  a  dozen 
trout  in  it;  two  little  lads  in  gray  corduroys  run 
ning  down  the  path  through  the  woods  to  meet 
him,  one  carrying  a  frying-pan  and  a  kettle,  the 
other  with  a  basket  of  lunch  on  his  arm.  Then  I 
see  the  bright  flames  leaping  up  in  the  fireplace, 
and  hear  the  trout  sizzling  in  the  pan,  and  smell 
the  appetizing  odor.  Now  I  see  the  lads  coming 
back  across  the  foot-bridge  that  spans  the  stream, 


56  Memories  and  Pictures 

with  a  bottle  of  milk  from  the  nearest  farmhouse. 
They  are  laughing  and  teetering  as  they  balance 
along  the  single  plank.  Now  the  table  is  spread 
on  the  moss.  How  good  the  lunch  tastes !  Never 
were  there  such  pink-fleshed  trout,  such  crisp  and 
savory  slices  of  broiled  bacon.  Douglas  (the  be 
loved  doll  that  the  younger  lad  shamefacedly 
brings  out  from  the  pocket  of  his  jacket)  must  cer 
tainly  have  some  of  it.  And  after  the  lunch  is 
finished,  and  the  birds'  portion  has  been  scattered 
on  the  moss,  we  creep  carefully  on  our  hands  and 
knees  to  the  edge  of  the  brook,  and  look  over  the 
bank  at  the  big  trout  that  is  poising  himself  in  the 
amber  water.  We  have  tried  a  dozen  times  to 
catch  him,  but  never  succeeded.  The  next  time, 
perhaps 

Well,  the  fireplace  is  still  standing.  The  but 
ternut-tree  spreads  its  broad  branches  above  the 
stream.  The  violets  and  the  bishopscaps  and  the 
wild  anemones  are  sprinkled  over  the  banks.  The 
yellow-throat  and  the  water-thrush  and  the  vireos 
still  sing  the  same  tunes  in  the  thicket.  And  the 
elder  of  the  two  lads  often  comes  back  with  me  to 
that  pleasant  place  and  shares  my  fisherman's  luck 
beside  the  Swiftwater. 

But  the  younger  lad? 

Ah,  my  little  Barney,  you  have  gone  to  follow 
a  new  stream — clear  as  crystal — flowing  through 
fields  of  wonderful  flowers  that  never  fade.  It  is 
a  strange  river  to  Teddy  and  me ;  strange  and  very 
far  away.  Some  day  we  shall  see  it  with  you; 


The  Open  Fire  57 

and  you  will  teach  us  the  names  of  those  blossoms 
that  do  not  wither.  But  till  then,  little  Barney,  the 
other  lad  and  I  will  follow  the  old  stream  that 
flows  by  the  woodland  fireplace — your  altar. 

Rue  grows  here.  Yes,  there  is  plenty  of  rue. 
But  there  is  also  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance ! 
And  close  beside  it  I  see  a  little  heart's-ease. 


PART   II 
SONGS    OUT-OF-DOORS 


BIRDS   IN  THE  MORNING 

THIS  is  the  carol  the  Robin  throws 
Over  the  edge  of  the  valley; 

Listen  how  boldly  it  flows, 
Sally  on  sally: 

Tirra-lirra, 
Down  the  river, 
Laughing  water 
All  a-quiver. 
Day  is  near, 
Clear,  clear. 
Fish  are  breaking, 
Time  for  waking. 
Tup,  tup,  tup! 
Do  you  hear? 
All  clear — 
Wake  up! 

This  is  the  ballad  the  Bluebird  sings, 

Unto  his  mate  replying, 
Shaking  the  tune  from  his  wings 

While  he  is  flying: 


62  Songs  Out-of-Doors 

Surely,  surely,  surely, 
Life  is  dear 
Even  here. 
Blue  above, 
You  to  love, 

Purely,  purely,  purely. 


This  is  the  song  the  Brown  Thrush  flings 

Out  of  his  thicket  of  roses; 
Hark  how  it  warbles  and  rings, 

Mark  how  it  closes: 

Luck,  luck, 

What  luck? 

Good  enough  for  me! 

I'm  alive,  you  see. 

Sun  shining, 

No  repining; 

Never  borrow 

Idle  sorrow; 

Drop  it! 

Cover  it  up! 

Hold  your  cup! 

Joy  will  fill  it, 

Don't  spill  it, 

Steady,  be  ready, 

Good  luck! 


THE   SONG-SPARROW 

THERE  is  a  bird  I  know  so  well, 

It  seems  as  if  he  must  have  sung 

Beside  my  crib  when  I  was  young; 
Before  I  knew  the  way  to  spell 

The  name  of  even  the  smallest  bird, 

His  gentle- joyful  song  I  heard. 
Now  see  if  you  can  tell,  my  dear, 
What  bird  it  is  that,  every  year, 
Sings  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer" 

He  comes  in  March,  when  winds  are  strong, 

And  snow  returns  to  hide  the  earth; 

But  still  he  warms  his  heart  with  mirth, 
And  waits  for  May.     He  lingers  long 

While  flowers  fade;  and  every  day 

Repeats  his  small,  contented  lay; 
As  if  to  say,  we  need  not  fear 
The  season's  change,  if  love  is  here 
With  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer." 

He  does  not  wear  a  Joseph's  coat 

Of  many  colors,  smart  and  gay; 

His  suit  is  Quaker  brown  and  gray, 
With  darker  patches  at  his  throat. 


64  Songs  Out-of-Doors 

And  yet  of  all  the  well-dressed  throng 

Not  one  can  sing  so  brave  a  song. 
It  makes  the  pride  of  looks  appear 
A  vain  and  foolish  thing,  to  hear 
His  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer." 

A  lofty  place  he  does  not  love, 

But  sits  by  choice,  and  well  at  ease, 
In  hedges,  and  in  little  trees 
That  stretch  their  slender  arms  above 
The  meadow-brook;  and  there  he  sings 
Till  all  the  field  with  pleasure  rings ; 
And  so  he  tells  in  every  ear, 
That  lowly  homes  to  heaven  are  near 
In  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer" 

I  like  the  tune,  I  like  the  words ; 

They  seem  so  true,  so  free  from  art, 

So  friendly,  and  so  full  of  heart, 
That  if  but  one  of  all  the  birds 

Could  be  my  comrade  everywhere, 

My  little  brother  of  the  air, 
This  is  the  one  I'd  choose,  my  dear, 
Because  he'd  bless  me,  every  year, 
With  "Sweet — sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer" 


THE   MARYLAND   YELLOW-THROAT 

WHILE  May  bedecks  the  naked  trees 
With  tassels  and  embroideries, 
And  many  blue-eyed  violets  beam 
Along  the  edges  of  the  stream, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  seems  to  say, 
Now  near  at  hand,  now  far  away, 
"Witchery — witchery — witchery  ¥* 

An  incantation  so  serene, 
So  innocent,  befits  the  scene: 
There's  magic  in  that  small  bird's  note — 
See,  there  he  flits — the  Yellow-throat; 
A  living  sunbeam,  tipped  with  wings, 
A  spark  of  light  that  shines  and  sings 
"Witchery — witchery — witchery  !" 

You  prophet  with  a  pleasant  name, 
If  out  of  Mary-land  you  came, 
You  know  the  way  that  thither  goes 
Where  Mary's  lovely  garden  grows: 
Fly  swiftly  back  to  her,  I  pray, 
And  try,  to  call  her  down  this  way, 
"  Witchery — witchery — witchery  /" 
65 


66  Songs  Out-of-Doors 

Tell  her  to  leave  her  cockle-shells, 
And  all  her  little  silver  bells 
That  blossom  into  melody, 
And  all  her  maids  less  fair  than  she. 
She  does  not  need  these  pretty  things, 
For  everywhere  she  comes,  she  brings 
"Witchery — -witchery — witchery!" 

The  woods  are  greening  overhead, 
And  flowers  adorn  each  mossy  bed; 
The  waters  babble  as  they  run — 
One  thing  is  lacking,  only  one: 
If  Mary  were  but  here  to-day, 
I  would  believe  your  charming  lay, 
"  Witchery — -witchery — -witchery !" 

Along  the  shady  road  I  look — 
Who's  coming  now  across  the  brook? 
A  woodland  maid,  all  robed  in  white — 
The  leaves  dance  round  her  with  delight, 
The  stream  laughs  out  beneath  her  feet — 
Sing,  merry  bird,  the  charm's  complete, 
"Witchery — witchery — witchery !" 


THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL 

Do  you  remember,  father — 
It  seems  so  long  ago — 

The  day  we  fished  together 
Along  the  Pocono? 

At  dusk  I  waited  for  you, 
Beside  the  lumber-mill, 

And  there  I  heard  a  hidden  bird 
That  chanted,  "whip-poor-will!" 
"Whippoorwill !  whippoorwill !" 
Sad  and  shrill — "whippoorwill!" 

The  place  was  all  deserted; 
The  mill-wheel  hung  at  rest; 

The  lonely  star  of  evening 
Was  quivering  in  the  west; 

The  veil  of  night  was  falling; 
The  winds  were  folded  still ; 

And  everywhere  the  trembling  air 
Re-echoed  "whip-poor-will !" 
"Whippoorwill !  whippoorwill !" 
Sad  and  shrill — "whippoorwill!" 

You  seemed  so  long  in  coming, 

I  felt  so  much  alone; 
The  wide,  dark  world  was  round  me, 

And  life  was  all  unknown; 
67 


68  Songs  Out-of-Doors 

The  hand  of  sorrow  touched  me, 
And  made  my  senses  thrill 

With  all  the  pain  that  haunts  the  strain 
Of  mournful  whip-poor-will. 
"Whippoorwill !  whippoorwill !" 
Sad  and  shrill — "whippoorwill!" 

What  did  I  know  of  trouble? 
An  idle  little  lad; 

I  had  not  learned  the  lessons 
That  make  men  wise  and  sad. 

I  dreamed  of  grief  and  parting, 
And  something  seemed  to  fill 

My  heart  with  tears,  while  in  my  ears 
Resounded  "whip-poor-will !" 
"Whippoorwill!  whippoorwill!" 
Sad  and  shrill — "whippoorwill!" 

'Twas  but  a  shadowy  sadness, 

That  lightly  passed  away; 
But  I  have  known  the  substance 

Of  sorrow,  since  that  day. 
For  nevermore  at  twilight, 

Beside  the  silent  mill, 
I'll  wait  for  you,  in  the  falling  dew, 

And  hear  the  whip-poor-will. 

"Whippoorwill !  zvhippoorwill !" 

Sad  and  shrill — "whippoorwill!" 

But  if  you  still  remember, 

In  that  fair  land  of  light, 
The  pains  and  fears  that  touch  us 

Along  this  edge  of  night, 


The   Wkip-Poor-Will  69 

I  think  all  earthly  grieving, 

And  all  our  mortal  ill, 
To  you  must  seem  like  a  boy's  sad  dream, 

Who  hears  the  whip-poor-will. 

" Whippoorwill !  whippoorwill  /" 

A  passing  thrill — "whippoorwill!" 


THE   MOCKING-BIRD 

IN  mirth  he  mocks  the  other  birds  at  noon, 
Catching  the  lilt  of  every  easy  tune; 
But  when  the  day  departs  he  sings  of  love, — 
His  own  wild  song  beneath  the  listening  moon. 


AN  ANGLER'S  WISH  IN  TOWN 


WHEN  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 
And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 

Go  wandering  down  the  dusty  town, 
Like  children  lost  in  Vanity  Fair; 

When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  stands  aglow, 

And  leads  the  eyes  toward  sunset  skies 
Beyond  the  hills  where  green  trees  grow; 

Then  weary  seems  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade; 
I'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-fishing; 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 


ii 


I  guess  the  pussy-willows  now 
Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough 

Along  the  brook;  and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plough. 
70 


An  Angler  s   Wish  in  Town         71 

The  thistle-birds  have  changed  their  dun, 
For  yellow  coats,  to  match  the  sun; 

And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  Dandelion  Show's  begun. 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  trees: 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these? 

in 

I  think  the  meadow-lark's  clear  sound 
Leaks  upward  slowly  from  the  ground, 

While  on  the  wing,  the  bluebirds  ring 
Their  wedding-bells  to  woods  around. 

The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush ;  and  very  near, 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass  grows, 
Song-sparrows  gently  sing,  "Good  cheer." 

And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit-thrush  repeats  his  psalm. 

How  much  I'm  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  so  sweet  with  music's  balm! 

IV 

Tis  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine ; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record,  or  my  line: 


72  Songs  Ouf -of -Doors 

Only  an  idle  little  stream, 

Whose  amber  waters  softly  gleam, 

Where  I  may  wade,  through  woodland  shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream: 

Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 

From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art: 

No  more  I'm  wishing — old-fashioned  fishing, 
And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart. 


THE   VEERY 

THE  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood 

were  pouring, 
When  first  I  heard  the  nightingale  a  long-lost  love 

deploring. 
So  passionate,  so  full  of  pain,  it  sounded  strange 

and  eerie; 
I  longed  to  hear  a  simpler  strain — the  wood-notes 

of  the  veery. 

The  laverock  sings  a  bonny  lay  above  the  Scottish 

heather ; 
It  sprinkles  down  from  far  away  like  light  and  love 

together  ; 
He  drops  the  golden  notes  to  greet  his  brooding 

mate,  his  dearie; 
I  only  know  one  song  more  sweet — the  vespers  of 

the  veery. 


The  Veery  73 

In  English  gardens,  green  and  bright  and  full  of 

fruity  treasure, 
I  heard  the  blackbird  with  delight  repeat  his  merry 

measure : 


The  ballad  was  a  pleasant  one,  the  tune  was  loud 

and  cheery, 
And  yet,  with  every  setting  sun,  I  listened  for  the 

veery. 

But  far  away,  and  far  away,  the  tawny  thrush  is 

singing; 
New  England  woods,  at  close  of  day,  with  that 

clear  chant  are  ringing: 
And  when  my  light  of  life  is  low,  and  heart  and 

flesh  are  weary, 
I  fain  would  hear,  before  I  go,  the  wood-notes  of 

the  veery. 


THE  RUBY-CROWNED  KINGLET 


WHERE'S  your  kingdom,  little  king? 

Where's  the  land  you  call  your  own, 

Where's  your  palace,  and  your  throne? 
Fluttering  lightly  on  the  wing 

Through  the  blossom-world  of  May, 

Whither  lies  your  royal  way? 

Where's  the  realm  that  owns  your  sway, 
Little  king? 

Far  to  northward  lies  a  land, 
Where  the  trees  together  stand 
Closer  than  the  blades  of  wheat, 
When  the  summer  is  complete. 
Like  a  robe  the  forests  hide 
Lonely  vale  and  mountain  side: 
Balsam,  hemlock,  spruce  and  pine, — 
All  those  mighty  trees  are  mine. 
There's  a  river  flowing  free; 
All  its  waves  belong  to  me. 
There's  a  lake  so  clear  and  bright 
Stars  shine  out  of  it  all  night, 
And  the  rowan-berries  red 
Round  it  like  a  girdle  spread. 
Feasting  plentiful  and  fine, 
74 


The  Ruby-Crowned  Kinglet          75 

Air  that  cheers  the  heart  like  wine, 
Royal  pleasures  by  the  score, 
Wait  for  me  in  Labrador 
There  I'll  build  my  dainty  nest; 
There  I'll  fix  my  court  and  rest; 
There  from  dawn  to  dark  I'll  sing: 
Happy  kingdom!    Lucky  king! 


II 


Back  again,  my  little  king! 
Is  your  happy  kingdom  lost 
To  that  rebel  knave,  Jack  Frost? 

Have  you  felt  the  snow-flakes  sting? 
Autumn  is  a  rude  disrober: 
Houseless,  homeless  in  October, 
Whither  now?    Your  plight  is  sober, 
Exiled  king! 

Far  to  southward  lie  the  regions 
Where  my  loyal  flower-legions 
Hold  possession  of  the  year, 
Filling  every  month  with  cheer. 
Christmas  wakes  the  winter  rose; 
New  Year  daffodils  unclose; 
Yellow  jasmine  through  the  woods 
Runs  in  March  with  golden  Hoods, 
Dropping  from  the  tallest  trees 
Shining  streams  that  never  freeze. 
Thither  I  must  find  my  way. 
Fly  by  night  and  feed  by  day, 


76  Songs  Out-of-Doors 

Till  I  see  the  southern  moon 
Glistening  on  the  broad  lagoon, 
Where  the  cypress'  vivid  green, 
And  the  dark  magnolia's  sheen, 
Weave  a  shelter  round  my  home. 
There  the  snow-storms  never  corner 
There  the  bannered  mosses  gray 
In  the  breeses  gently  sway, 
Hanging  low  on  every  side 
Round  the  covert  where  I  hide. 
There  I  hold  my  winter  court, 
Full  of  merriment  and  sport: 
There  I  take  my  ease  and  sing: 
Happy  kingdom!    Lucky  king! 


in 


Little  boaster,  vagrant  king! 

Neither  north  nor  south  is  yours: 
You've  no  kingdom  that  endures. 

Wandering  every  fall  and  spring, 
With  your  painted  crown  so  slender, 
And  your  talk  of  royal  splendor 
Must  I  call  you  a  Pretender, 
Landless  king? 

Never  king  by  right  divine 
Ruled  a  richer  realm  than  mine! 
What  are  lands  and  golden  crowns, 
Armies,  fortresses  and  towns, 


Wings  of  a  Dove  77 

Jewels,  sceptres,  robes,  and  rings, — 
What  are  these  to  song  and  wings? 
Everywhere  that  I  can  fty, 
There  I  own  the  earth  and  sky; 
Everywhere  that  I  can  sing, 
There  I'm  happy  as  a  king. 


WINGS   OF   A   DOVE 


AT  sunset,  when  the  rosy  light  was  dying 

Far  down  the  pathway  of  the  west, 
I  saw  a  lonely  dove  in  silence  flying, 
To  be  at  rest. 

Pilgrim  of  air,  I  cried,  could  I  but  borrow 
Thy  wandering  wings,  thy  freedom  blest, 
I'd  fly  away  from  every  careful  sorrow, 
And  find  my  rest. 

II 

But  when  the  dusk  a  filmy  veil  was  weaving, 

Back  came  the  dove  to  seek  her  nest 
Deep  in  the  forest  where  her  mate  was  grieving- 
There  was  true  rest. 

Peace,  heart  of  mine!  no  longer  sigh  to  wander; 

Lose  not  thy  life  in  fruitless  quest. 
There  are  no  happy  islands  over  yonder; 
Come  home  and  rest. 


PART   III 
STORIES 


A   FRIEND   OF   JUSTICE 

HE  was  a  great  dog,  thirty  inches  high  at  the 
shoulder ;  broad-chested,  with  straight,  sinewy  legs ; 
and  covered  with  thick,  wavy,  cream-colored  hair 
from  the  tips  of  his  short  ears  to  the  end  of  his 
bushy  tail — all  except  the  left  side  of  his  face. 
That  was  black  from  ear  to  nose — coal-black;  and 
in  the  centre  of  this  storm-cloud  his  eye  gleamed 
like  fire. 

How  this  sinister  mark  came  to  him,  he  never 
knew.  Indeed,  it  is  not  likely  that  he  had  any  idea 
of  the  part  that  it  played  in  his  career.  The  atti 
tude  that  the  world  took  toward  him  from  the  be 
ginning,  an  attitude  of  aggressive  mistrust — the 
role  that  he  was  expected  and  practically  forced 
to  assume  in  the  drama  of  existence,  the  role  of  a 
hero  of  interminable  strife — must  have  seemed  to 
him  altogether  mysterious  and  somewhat  absurd. 
But  his  part  was  fixed  by  the  black  patch.  It  gave 
him  an  aspect  so  truculent  and  forbidding  that  all 
the  elements  of  warfare  gathered  around  him  as 
hornets  around  a  sugar  barrel,  and  his  appearance 
in  public  was  like  the  raising  of  a  flag  for  battle. 

He  was  called   Pichou  *  because  he  looked  so 

*  Pronounce  this  Pee' shoo, 
II 


82  Stories 

ugly  and  so  fierce — just  like  a  lynx — as  the  French 
Canadians  say,  "ugly  as  a  lynx."  But  in  reality 
he  was  a  dog  of  orderly  and  peaceable  instincts, 
with  a  deep  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  and  a  great 
desire  to  do  his  duty  in  the  world.  He  hated  mean 
ness  and  deceit,  and  was  a  strong  friend  of  justice 
and  fair-play. 

When  Pichou's  master,  Dan  Scott,  the  Hudson 
Bay  agent,  first  brought  him  down  to  Seven  Isl 
ands  as  a  sledge-dog  he  found  that  his  work  was 
cut  out  for  him  on  a  generous  scale.  It  is  true 
that  at  first  he  had  no  regular  canine  labor  to  per 
form,  for  it  was  summer.  Seven  months  of  the 
year,  on  the  North  Shore,  a  sledge-dog's  occupa 
tion  is  gone.  He  is  the  idlest  creature  in  the 
universe. 

But  Pichou,  being  a  new-comer,  had  to  win  his 
footing  in  the  community;  and  that  was  no  light 
task.  With  the  humans  it  was  comparatively  easy. 
At  the  outset  they  mistrusted  him  on  account  of 
his  looks.  Virgile  Boulianne  asked:  "Why  did  you 
buy  such  an  ugly  dog?"  Ovide,  who  was  the  wit 
of  the  family,  said:  "I  suppose  M'sieu'  Scott  got  a 
present  for  taking  him." 

"It's  a  good  dog,"  said  Dan  Scott.  "Treat  him 
well  and  he'll  treat  you  well.  Kick  him  and  I  kick 
you." 

The  village  decided  to  accept  Pichou  at  his  mas 
ter's  valuation.  Moderate  friendliness,  with  pre 
cautions,  was  shown  toward  him  by  everybody. 

But  while  the  relations  with  the  humans  of  Seven 


A  Friend  of  Justice  83 

Islands  were  soon  established  on  a  fair  footing, 
with  the  canines  Pichou  had  a  very  different  affair. 
They  were  not  willing  to  accept  any  recommenda 
tions  as  to  character.  They  judged  for  themselves; 
and  they  judged  by  appearances;  and  their  judg 
ment  was  utterly  hostile  to  Pichou. 

They  decided  that  he  was  a  proud  dog,  a  fierce 
dog,  a  bad  dog,  a  fighter.  He  must  do  one  of  two 
things :  stay  at  home  in  the  yard  of  the  Honorable 
Hudson  Bay  Company,  which  is  a  thing  that  no 
self-respecting  dog  would  do  in  the  summer-time, 
when  codfish  heads  are  strewn  along  the  beach ; 
or  fight  his  way  from  one  end  of  the  village  to  the 
other,  which  Pichou  promptly  did,  leaving  enemies 
behind  every  fence.  Huskies  never  forget  a  grudge. 
They  are  malignant  to  the  core.  Hatred  is  the  wine 
of  cowardly  hearts.  This  is  as  true  of  dogs  as  it 
is  of  men. 

Then  Pichou,  having  settled  his  foreign  relations, 
turned  his  attention  to  matters  at  home.  There 
were  four  other  dogs  in  Dan  Scott's  team.  They 
did  not  want  Pichou  for  a  leader,  and  he  knew  it. 
They  were  bitter  with  jealousy.  The  black  patch 
was  loathsome  to  them.  They  treated  him  disre 
spectfully,  insultingly,  grossly.  Affairs  came  to  a 
head  when  Pecan,  a  rusty  gray  dog  who  had  great 
ambitions  and  little  sense,  disputed  Pichou's  tenure 
of  a  certain  hambone.  Dan  Scott  looked  on  plac 
idly  while  the  dispute  was  terminated.  Then  he 
washed  the  blood  and  sand  from  the  gashes  on 
Pecan's  shoulder,  and  patted  Pichou  on  the  head. 


84  Stories 

"Good  dog,"  he  said.    "You're  the  boss." 

There  was  no  further  question  about  Pichou's 
leadership  of  the  team.  But  the  obedience  of  his 
followers  was  unwilling  and  sullen.  There  was  no 
love  in  it. 

He  did  not  shrink  from  his  responsibilities. 
There  were  certain  reforms  in  the  community  which 
seemed  to  him  of  vital  importance,  and  he  put  them 
through. 

First  of  all,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  there 
ought  to  be  peace  and  order  on  the  village  street. 
In  the  yards  of  the  houses  that  were  strung  along 
it  there  should  be  home  rule,  and  every  dog  should 
deal  with  trespassers  as  he  saw  fit.  Also  on  the 
beach,  and  around  the  fish-shanties,  and  under  the 
racks  where  the  cod  were  drying,  the  right  of  the 
strong  jaw  should  prevail,  and  differences  of  opin 
ion  should  be  adjusted  in  the  old-fashioned  way. 
But  on  the  sandy  road,  bordered  with  a  broken 
board-walk,  which  ran  between  the  houses  and  the 
beach,  courtesy  and  propriety  must  be  observed. 
Visitors  walked  there.  Children  played  there.  It 
was  the  general  promenade.  It  must  be  kept  peace 
ful  and  decent.  This  was  the  First  Law  of  the 
Dogs  of  Seven  Islands:  If  two  dogs  quarrel  on 
the  street  they  must  go  elsewhere  to  settle  it.  It 
was  highly  unpopular,  but  Pichou  enforced  it  with 
his  teeth. 

The  Second  Law  was  equally  unpopular:  No 
stealing  from  the  Honorable  H.  B.  Company.  If 
a  man  bought  bacon  or  corned-beef  or  any  other 


A  Friend  of  Justice  85 

delicacy,  and  stored  it  in  an  insecure  place,  or  if 
he  left  fish  on  the  beach  overnight,  his  dogs  might 
act  according  to  their  inclination.  Though  Pichou 
did  not  understand  how  honest  dogs  could  steal 
from  their  own  master,  he  was  willing  to  admit 
that  this  was  their  affair.  His  affair  was  that  no 
body  should  steal  anything  from  the  Post.  It  cost 
him  many  night-watches,  and  some  large  battles  to 
carry  it  out,  but  he  did  it.  In  the  course  of  time 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  other  dogs  kept  away  from 
the  Post  altogether,  to  avoid  temptations;  and  his 
own  team  spent  most  of  their  free  time  wandering 
about  to  escape  discipline. 

The  most  recalcitrant  subjects  with  whom  Pi 
chou  had  to  deal  in  all  these  matters  were  the 
team  of  Ovide  Boulianne.  There  were  five  of 
them,  and  up  to  this  time  they  had  been  the  best 
team  in  the  village.  They  had  one  virtue:  under 
the  whip  they  could  whirl  a  sledge  over  the  snow 
farther  and  faster  than  a  horse  could  trot  in  a  day. 
But  they  had  innumerable  vices.  Their  leader, 
Carcajou,  had  a  fleece  like  a  merino  ram.  But 
under  this  coat  of  innocence  he  carried  a  heart  so 
black  that  he  would  bite  while  he  was  wagging  his 
tail.  This  smooth  devil,  and  his  four  followers 
like  unto  himself,  had  sworn  relentless  hatred  to 
Pichou,  and  they  made  his  life  difficult. 

But  his  great  and  sufficient  consolation  for  all 
toils  and  troubles  was  the  friendship  with  his  mas 
ter.  In  the  long  summer  evenings,  when  Dan 
Scott  was  making  up  his  accounts  in  the  store,  or 


86  Stories 

studying  his  pocket  cyclopaedia  of  medicine  in 
the  living-room  of  the  Post,  with  its  low  beams 
and  mysterious  green-painted  cupboards,  Pichou 
would  lie  contentedly  at  his  feet.  In  the  frosty 
autumnal  mornings,  when  the  brant  were  flocking 
in  the  marshes  at  the  head  of  the  bay,  they  would 
go  out  hunting  together  in  a  skiff.  And  who  could 
lie  so  still  as  Pichou  when  the  game  was  approach 
ing?  Or  who  could  spring  so  quickly  and  joy 
ously  to  retrieve  a  wounded  bird?  But  best  of  all 
were  the  long  walks  on  Sunday  afternoons,  on  the 
yellow  beach  that  stretched  away  toward  the  Moisie, 
or  through  the  fir-forest  behind  the  Pointe  des 
Chasseurs.  Then  master  and  dog  had  fellowship 
together  in  silence.  To  the  dumb  companion  it  was 
like  walking  with  his  God  in  the  garden  in  the  cool 
of  the  day. 

When  winter  came,  and  snow  fell,  and  waters 
froze,  Pichou's  serious  duties  began.  The  long, 
slim  sledge,  with  its  curving  prow,  and  its  runners 
of  whalebone,  was  put  in  order.  The  harness  of 
caribou-hide  was  repaired  and  strengthened.  The 
dogs,  even  the  most  vicious  of  them,  rejoiced  at 
the  prospect  of  doing  the  one  thing  that  they  could 
do  best.  Each  one  strained  at  his  trace  as  if  he 
would  drag  the  sledge  alone.  Then  the  long  tan 
dem  was  straightened  out,  Dan  Scott  took  his  place 
on  the  low  seat,  cracked  his  whip,  shouted,  and  the 
equipage  darted  along  the' snowy  track  like  a  fifty- 
foot  arrow. 

Pichou  was  in  the  lead,  and  he  showed  his  mettle 


A  Friend  of  Justice  87 

from  the  start.  No  need  of  the  terrible  whip  to 
lash  him  forward  or  to  guide  his  course.  A  word 
was  enough.  "Hoc!  Hoc!  Hoc!"  and  he  swung 
to  the  right,  avoiding  an  air-hole.  "Re-re  1  Re-re  1" 
and  he  veered  to  the  left,  dodging  a  heap  of  broken 
ice.  At  the  end  of  the  day's  run — thirty,  forty, 
fifty  miles — the  dogs  got  their  food  for  the  day, 
one  dried  fish  apiece ;  and  at  noon  the  next  day, 
reckless  of  bleeding  feet,  they  flew  back  over  the 
same  track,  and  broke  their  fast  at  Seven  Islands 
before  eight  o'clock.  The  ration  was  the  same,  a 
single  fish;  always  the  same,  except  when  it  was 
varied  by  a  cube  of  ancient,  evil-smelling,  potent 
whale's  flesh,  which  a  dog  can  swallow  at  a  single 
gulp.  Yet  the  dogs  of  the  North  Shore  are  never 
so  full  of  vigor,  courage,  and  joy  of  life  as  when 
the  sledges  are  running.  It  is  in  summer,  when 
food  is  plenty  and  work  slack,  that  they  sicken 
and  die. 

Pichou's  leadership  of  his  team  became  famous. 
Under  his  discipline  the  other  dogs  developed  speed 
and  steadiness.  One  day  they  made  the  distance 
to  the  Godbout  in  a  single  journey,  a  wonderful 
run  of  over  eighty  miles.  But  they  loved  their 
leader  no  better,  though  they  followed  him  faster. 
And  as  for  the  other  teams,  especially  Carcajou's, 
they  were  still  firm  in  their  deadly  hatred  for  the 
dog  with  the  black  patch. 

It  was  in  the  second  winter  after  Pichou's  com 
ing  to  Seven  Islands  that  the  great  trial  of  his 
courage  arrived.  Late  in  February  an  Indian  run- 


88  Stories 

ner  on  snow-shoes  staggered  into  the  village.  He 
brought  news  from  the  'hunting-parties  that  were 
wintering  far  up  on  the  Ste.  Marguerite — good 
news  and  bad.  First,  they  had  already  made  a 
good  hunting:  for  the  furs,  that  is  to  say.  They 
had  killed  many  otter,  some  fisher  and  beaver,  and 
four  silver  foxes — a  marvel  of  fortune.  But  then, 
for  the  food,  the  chase  was  bad,  very  bad — no  cari 
bou,  no  hare,  no  ptarmigan,  nothing  for  many  days. 
Provisions  were  very  low.  There  were  six  families 
together.  Then  la  grippe  had  taken  hold  of  them. 
They  were  sick,  starving.  They  would  probably 
die,  at  least  most  of  the  women  and  children.  It 
was  a  bad  job. 

Dan  Scott  had  peculiar  ideas  of  his  duty  toward 
the  savages.  He  was  not  romantic,  but  he  liked  to 
do  the  square  thing.  Besides,  he  had  been  reading 
up  on  la  grippe,  and  he  had  some  new  medicine  for 
it,  capsules  from  Montreal,  very  powerful — quinine, 
phenacetine,  and  morphine.  He  was  as  eager  to 
try  this  new  medicine  as  a  boy  is  to  fire  off  a  new 
gun.  He  loaded  the  sledge  with  provisions  and 
the  medicine-chest  with  capsules,  harnessed  his 
team,  and  started  up  the  river.  Thermometer  thirty 
degrees  below  zero ;  air  like  crystal ;  snow  six  feet 
deep  on  the  level. 

The  first  day's  journey  was  slow,  for  the  going 
was  soft,  and  the  track,  at  places,  had  to  be  broken 
out  with  snow-shoes.  Camp  was  made  at  the  foot 
of  the  big  fall — a  hole  in  snow,  a  bed  of  boughs, 
a  hot  fire,  and  a  blanket  stretched  on  a  couple  of 


A  Friend  of  Justice  89 

sticks  to  reflect  the  heat,  the  dogs  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fire,  and  Pichou  close  to  his  master. 

In  the  morning  there  was  the  steep  hill  beside 
the  fall  to  climb,  alternately  soft  and  slippery,  now 
a  slope  of  glass  and  now  a  treacherous  drift  of 
yielding  feathers ;  it  was  a  road  set  on  end.  But 
Pichou  flattened  his  back  and  strained  his  loins 
and  dug  his  toes  into  the  snow  and  would  not  give 
back  an  inch.  When  the  rest  of  the  team  balked 
the  long  whip  slashed  across  their  backs  and  re 
called  them  to  their  duty.  At  last  their  leader 
topped  the  ridge,  and  the  others  struggled  after 
him.  Before  them  stretched  the  great  dead-water 
of  the  river,  a  straight  white  path  to  No-man's- 
land.  The  snow  was  smooth  and  level,  and  the 
crust  was  hard  enough  to  bear.  Pichou  settled 
down  to  his  work  at  a  glorious  pace.  He  seemed 
to  know  that  he  must  do  his  best,  and  that  some 
thing  important  depended  on  the  quickness  of  his 
legs.  On  through  the  glittering  solitude,  on 
through  the  death-like  silence,  sped  the  sledge, 
between  the  interminable  walls  of  the  forest,  past 
the  mouths  of  nameless  rivers,  under  the  shadow  of 
grim  mountains.  At  noon  Dan  Scott  boiled  the 
kettle,  and  ate  his  bread  and  bacon.  But  there  was 
nothing  for  the  dogs,  not  even  for  Pichou ;  for  dis 
cipline  is  discipline,  and  the  best  of  sledge-dogs  will 
not  run  well  after  he  has  been  fed. 

Then  forward  again,  along  the  lifeless  road; 
slowly  over  rapids,  where  the  ice  was  rough  and 
broken;  swiftly  over  still  waters,  where  the  way 


90  Stories 

was  level;  until  they  came  to  the  foot  of  the  last 
lake,  and  camped  for  the  night.  The  Indians  were 
but  a  few  miles  away,  at  the  head  of  the  lake,  and 
it  would  be  easy  to  reach  them  in  the  morning. 

But  there  was  another  camp  on  the  Ste.  Margue 
rite  that  night,  and  it  was  nearer  to  Dan  Scott  than 
the  Indians  were.  Ovide  Boulianne  had  followed 
him  up  the  river,  close  on  his  track,  which  made  the 
going  easier. 

"Does  that  Hudson  Bay  fellow  suppose  that  I 
allow  him  all  that  pelletrie  to  himself  and  the  Com 
pany?  Four  silver  fox,  besides  otter  and  beaver? 
No,  thank  you !  I  take  some  provision,  and  some 
whiskey.  I  go  to  make  trade  also."  Thus  spoke 
the  shrewd  Ovide,  proving  that  commerce  is  no  less 
daring,  no  less  resolute,  than  philanthropy.  The 
only  difference  is  in  the  motive,  and  that  is  not 
always  visible.  Ovide  camped  the  second  night  at 
a  bend  of  the  river,  a  mile  below  the  foot  of  the 
lake.  Between  him  and  Dan  Scott  there  was  a  hill 
covered  with  a  dense  thicket  of  spruce. 

By  what  magic  did  Carcajou  know  that  Pichou, 
his  old  enemy,  was  so  near  him  in  that  vast  wilder 
ness  of  white  death  ?  By  what  mysterious  language 
did  he  communicate  his  knowledge  to  his  compan 
ions  and  stir  the  sleeping  hatred  in  their  hearts  and 
mature  the  conspiracy  of  revenge? 

Pichou,  sleeping  by  the  fire,  was  awakened  by 
the  fall  of  a  lump  of  snow  from  the  branch  of  a 
shaken  evergreen.  That  was  nothing.  But  there 
were  other  sounds  in  the  forest,  faint,  stealthy,  in- 


A  Friend  of  Justice  91 

audible  to  an  ear  less  keen  than  his.  He  crept  out 
of  the  shelter  and  looked  into  the  wood.  He  could 
see  shadowy  forms,  stealing  among  the  trees,  glid 
ing  down  the  hill.  Five  of  them.  Wolves,  doubt 
less  !  He  must  guard  the  provisions.  By  this  time 
the  rest  of  his  team  were  awake.  Their  eyes  glit 
tered.  They  stirred  uneasily.  But  they  did  not 
move  from  the  dying  fire.  It  was  no  concern  of 
theirs  what  their  leader  chose  to  do  out  of  hours. 
In  the  traces  they  would  follow  him,  but  there  was 
no  loyalty  in  their  hearts.  Pichou  stood  alone  by 
the  sledge,  waiting  for  the  wolves. 

But  these  were  no  wolves.  They  were  assassins. 
Like  a  company  of  soldiers,  they  lined  up  together 
and  rushed  silently  down  the  slope.  Like  lightning 
they  leaped  upon  the  solitary  dog  and  struck  him 
down.  In  an  instant,  before  Dan  Scott  could  throw 
off  his  blanket  and  seize  the  loaded  butt  of  his  whip, 
Pichou's  throat  and  breast  were  torn  to  rags,  his 
life-blood  poured  upon  the  snow,  and  his  murder 
ers  were  slinking  away,  slavering  and  muttering 
through  the  forest. 

Dan  Scott  knelt  beside  his  best  friend.  At  a 
glance  he  saw  that  the  injury  was  fatal.  "Well 
done,  Pichou!"  he  murmured,  "you  fought  a  good 
fight." 

*  And  the  dog,  by  a  brave  effort,  lifted  the  head 
with  the  black  patch  on  it,  for  the  last  time,  licked 
his  master's  hand,  and  then  dropped  back  upon  the 
snow — contented,  happy,  dead. 

There  is  but  one  drawback  to  a  dog's  friendship. 
It  does  not  last  long  enough. 


THE   THRILLING   MOMENT 

EVERY  moment  of  life,  I  suppose,  is  more  or  less 
of  a  turning-point.  Opportunities  are  swarming 
around  us  all  the  time  thicker  than  gnats  at  sun 
down.  We  walk  through  a  cloud  of  chances,  and 
if  we  were  always  conscious  of  them  they  would 
worry  us  almost  to  death.  Only  now  and  then,  by 
way  of  special  excitement,  we  see  how  delicately 
our  fortune  is  poised  and  balanced  on  the  pivot  of 
a  single  incident,  and  then  we  call  our  experience 
a  crisis,  a  thrilling  moment. 

One  of  these  came  to  me  in  the  autumn  of  1894, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Unpronounceable  River,  in  the 
Province  of  Quebec.  It  was  the  last  day  of  the 
open  season  for  land-locked  salmon,  and  we  had 
set  our  hearts  on  catching  some  good  fish  to  take 
home  with  us.  We  walked  up  from  the  mouth  of 
the  river,  four  preposterously  long  and  rough  miles, 
to  a  famous  fishing-pool.  It  was  a  noble  day  for 
walking;  the  air  was  clear  and  crisp,  and  all  the 
hills  around  us  were  glowing  with  the  crimsoti 
foliage  of  those  little  bushes  which  God  created  to 
make  burned  lands  look  beautiful.  The  trail  ended 
in  a  precipitous  gully,  down  which  we  scrambled 
with  high  hopes,  and  fishing-rods  unbroken,  only 

92 


The  Thrilling  Moment  93 

to  find  that  the  river  was  in  a  condition  which  made 
angling  absurd  if  not  impossible. 

There  must  have  been  a  cloud-burst  among  the 
mountains,  for  the  water  was  coming  down  in  a  flood. 
The  stream  was  bank-full,  gurgling  and  eddying 
out  among  the  bushes,  and  rushing  over  the  shoal 
where  the  fish  used  to  lie,  in  a  brown  torrent  ten 
feet  deep.  Our  last  day  with  the  salmon  seemed 
destined  to  be  a  failure,  and  we  must  wait  eight 
months  before  we  could  have  another.  There  were 
three  of  us  in  the  disappointment,  and  we  shared 
it  according  to  our  temperaments. 

Paul  virtuously  resolved  not  to  give  up  while 
there  was  a  chance  left,  and  wandered  down-stream 
to  look  for  an  eddy  where  he  might  pick  up  a  small 
fish.  Ferdinand,  our  guide,  resigned  himself  with 
out  a  sigh  to  the  consolation  of  eating  blueberries, 
which  he  always  did  with  great  cheerfulness.  But 
I,  being  more  cast  down  than  either  of  my  com 
rades,  sought  out  a  convenient  seat  among  the 
rocks,  and,  adapting  my  anatomy  as  well  as  pos 
sible  to  the  irregularities  of  Nature's  upholstery, 
settled  down  to  read  myself  into  a  Christian  frame 
of  mind. 

Before  beginning,  my  eyes  roved  sadly  over  the 
pool  once  more.  It  was  but  a  casual  glance.  It 
lasted  only  for  an  instant.  But  in  that  fortunate 
fragment  of  time  I  distinctly  saw  the  broad  tail  of 
a  big  fish  rise  and  disappear  in  the  swift  water  at 
the  very  head  of  the  pool. 

Immediately   the   whole    aspect    of   affairs   was 


94  Stories 

changed.  Despondency  vanished,  and  the  river 
glittered  with  the  beams  of  rising  hope. 

I  said  nothing  to  my  companions.  It  would 
have  been  unkind  to  disturb  them  with  expectations 
which  might  never  be  realized.  My  immediate 
duty  was  to  get  within  casting  distance  of  that 
salmon  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  way  along  the  shore  of  the  pool  was  diffi 
cult.  The  bank  was  very  steep,  and  the  rocks  by 
the  river's  edge  were  broken  and  glibbery.  Pres 
ently  I  came  to  a  sheer  wall  of  stone,  perhaps  thirty 
feet  high,  rising  directly  from  the  deep  water. 

There  was  a  tiny  ledge  or  crevice  running  part 
of  the  way  across  the  face  of  this  wall,  and  by  this 
four-inch  path  I  edged  along,  holding  my  rod  in 
one  hand  and  clinging  affectionately  with  the  other 
to  such  clumps  of  grass  and  little  bushes  as  I  could 
find.  There  was  one  small  huckleberry  plant  to 
which  I  had  a  particular  attachment. 

The  ledge  in  the  rock  soon  came  to  an  end.  But 
below  me  in  the  pool  there  was  a  sunken  reef,  and 
on  this  reef  a  long  log  had  caught,  with  one  end 
sticking  out  of  the  water,  within  jumping  distance. 
It  was  the  only  chance.  To  go  back  would  have 
been  dangerous.  An  angler  with  a  large  family 
dependent  upon  him  for  support  has  no  right  to 
incur  unnecessary  perils. 

Besides,  the  fish  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  pool ! 

So  I  jumped,  landed  on  the  end  of  the  log,  felt 
it  settle  slowly  down,  ran  along  it  like  a  small  boy 


The  Thrilling  Moment  95 

on  a  seesaw,  and  leaped  off  into  shallow  water  just 
as  the  log  rolled  from  the  ledge  and  lunged  out 
into  the  stream. 

I  watched  it  with  interest  and  congratulated  my 
self  that  I  was  no  longer  embarked  upon  it.  On 
that  craft  a  voyage  down  the  Unpronounceable 
River  would  have  been  short  but  far  from  merry. 
The  "all  ashore"  bell  was  not  rung  early  enough. 
I  just  got  off,  with  not  half  a  second  to  spare. 

But  now  all  was  well,  for  I  was  within  reach 
of  the  fish.  A  little  scrambling  over  the  rocks 
brought  me  to  a  point  where  I  could  easily  cast 
over  him.  He  was  lying  in  a  swift,  smooth,  nar 
row  channel  between  two  large  stones.  It  was  a 
snug  resting-place,  and  no  doubt  he  would  remain 
there  for  some  time.  So  I  took  out  my  fly-book 
and  prepared  to  angle  for  him  according  to  the 
approved  rules  of  the  art. 

I  carefully  tested  a  brand-new  leader,  and  at 
tached  it  to  the  line  with  great  deliberation  and  the 
proper  knot.  Then  I  gave  my  whole  mind  to  the 
important  question  of  a  wise  selection  of  flies. 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  time  and  mental 
anxiety  a  man  can  spend  on  an  apparently  simple 
question  like  this.  When  you  are  buying  flies  in 
a  shop  it  seems  as  if  you  never  had  half  enough. 
You  keep  on  picking  out  a  half-dozen  of  each  new 
variety  as  fast  as  the  enticing  salesman  shows  them 
to  you.  You  stroll  through  the  streets  of  Montreal 
or  Quebec  and  drop  in  at  every  fishing-tackle  deal 
er's  to  see  whether  you  can  find  a  few  more  good 


96  Stories 

flies.  Then,  when  you  come  to  look  over  your  col 
lection  at  the  critical  moment  on  the  bank  of  a 
stream,  it  seems  as  if  you  had  ten  times  too  many. 
And,  spite  of  all,  the  precise  fly  that  you  need  is 
not  there. 

You  select  a  couple  that  you  think  fairly  good, 
lay  them  down  beside  you  in  the  grass,  and  go  on 
looking  through  the  book  for  something  better. 
Failing  to  satisfy  yourself,  you  turn  to  pick  up 
those  that  you  have  laid  out,  and  find  that  they 
have  mysteriously  vanished  from  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

Then  you  struggle  with  naughty  words  and 
relapse  into  a  condition  of  mental  palsy. 

The  best  thing  to  do  in  such  a  case  is  to  adopt 
some  abstract  theory  of  action  without  delay,  and 
put  it  into  practice  without  hesitation.  Then  if 
you  fail,  you  can  throw  the  responsibility  on  the 
theory. 

Now,  in  regard  to  flies  there  are  two  theories. 
The  old,  conservative  theory  is,  that  on  a  bright 
day  you  should  use  a  dark,  dull  fly,  because  it  is 
less  conspicuous.  So  I  followed  that  theory  first 
and  put  on  a  Great  Dun  and  a  Dark  Montreal.  I 
cast  them  delicately  over  the  fish,  but  he  would 
not  look  at  them. 

Then  I  went  over  to  the  new,  radical  theory 
which  says  that  on  a  bright  day  you  must  use  a 
light,  gay  fly,  because  it  is  more  in  harmony  with 
the  sky,  and  therefore  less  noticeable.  Accordingly 
I  put  on  a  Professor  and  a  Parmacheene  Belle ;  but 


The  Thrilling  Moment  97 

this  combination  of  learning  and  beauty  had  no 
attraction  for  the  salmon. 

Then  I  fell  back  on  a  theory  of  my  own,  to  the 
effect  that  the  salmon  have  an  aversion  to  red,  and 
prefer  yellow  and  brown.  So  I  tried  various 
combinations  of  flies  in  which  these  colors  pre 
dominated. 

Then  I  abandoned  all  theories  and  went  straight 
through  my  book,  trying  something  from  every 
page,  and  winding  up  with  that  lure  which  the 
guides  consider  infallible — "a  Jock  o'  Scott  that 
cost  fifty  cents  at  Quebec."  But  it  was  all  in  vain. 
I  was  ready  to  despair. 

At  this  psychological  moment  I  heard  behind  me 
a  voice  of  hope — the  song  of  a  grasshopper:  not 
one  of  those  fat-legged,  green-winged  imbeciles 
that  feebly  tumble  in  the  summer  fields,  but  a  game 
grasshopper — one  of  those  thin-shanked,  brown- 
winged  fellows  that  leap  like  kangaroos,  and  fly 
like  birds,  and  sing  Kri-karee-karee-kri  in  their 
flight. 

It  is  not  really  a  song,  I  know,  but  it  sounds 
like  one;  and,  if  you  had  heard  that  Kri-karee 
carolling  as  I  chased  him  over  the  rocks,  you  would 
have  been  sure  that  he  was  mocking  me. 

I  believed  that  he  was  the  predestined  lure  for 
that  salmon;  but  it  was  hard  to  persuade  him  to 
fulfil  his  destiny.  I  slapped  at  him  with  my  hat, 
but  he  was  not  there.  I  grasped  at  him  on  the 
bushes,  and  brought  away  "nothing  but  leaves." 
At  last  he  made  his  way  to  the  very  edge  of  the 


98  Stories 

water  and  poised  himself  on  a  stone,  with  his  legs 
well  tucked  in  for  a  long  leap  and  a  bold  flight  to 
the  other  side  of  the  river.  It  was  my  final  oppor 
tunity.  I  made  a  desperate  grab  at  it  and  caught 
the  grasshopper. 

My  premonition  proved  to  be  correct.  When 
that  Kri-karee,  invisibly  attached  to  my  leader, 
went  floating  down  the  stream,  the  salmon  was 
surprised.  It  was  the  fourteenth  of  September,  and 
he  had  supposed  the  grasshopper  season  was  over. 
The  unexpected  temptation  was  too  strong  for  him. 
He  rose  with  a  rush,  and  in  an  instant  I  was  fast 
to  the  best  land-locked  salmon  of  the  year. 

But  the  situation  was  not  without  its  embarrass 
ments.  My  rod  weighed  only  four  and  a  quarter 
ounces ;  the  fish  weighed  between  six  and  seven 
pounds.  The  water  was  furious  and  headstrong. 
I  had  only  thirty  yards  of  line  and  no  landing-net. 

"Hola!  Ferdinand!"  I  cried.  "Bring  the  net, 
quick!  A  beauty!  Hurry  up!" 

I  thought  it  must  be  an  hour  while  he  was  mak 
ing  his  way  over  the  hill,  through  the  underbrush, 
around  the  cliff.  Again  and  again  the  fish  ran  out 
my  line  almost  to  the  last  turn.  A  dozen  times  he 
leaped  from  the  water,  shaking  his  silvery  sides. 
Twice  he  tried  to  cut  the  leader  across  a  sunken 
ledge.  But  at  last  he  was  played  out,  and  came  in 
quietly  toward  the  point  of  the  rock.  At  the  same 
moment  Ferdinand  appeared  with  the  net. 

Now,  the  use  of  the  net  is  really  the  most  diffi 
cult  part  of  angling.  And  Ferdinand  is  the  best 


The  situation  was  not  without  its  embarrassments. 


The  Thrilling  Moment  99 

netsman  in  the  Lake  St.  John  country.  He  never 
makes  the  mistake  of  trying  to  scoop  a  fish  in  mo 
tion.  He  does  not  grope  around  with  aimless, 
futile  strokes  as  if  he  were  feeling  for  something 
in  the  dark.  He  does  not  entangle  the  dropper-fly 
in  the  net  and  tear  the  tail-fly  out  of  the  fish's 
mouth.  He  does  not  get  excited. 

He  quietly  sinks  the  net  in  the  water,  and  waits 
until  he  can  see  the  fish  distinctly,  lying  perfectly 
still  and  within  reach.  Then  he  makes  a  swift 
movement,  like  that  of  a  mower  swinging  the 
scythe,  takes  the  fish  into  the  net  head  first,  and 
lands  him  without  a  slip. 

I  felt  sure  that  Ferdinand  was  going  to  do  the 
trick  in  precisely  this  way  with  my  salmon.  Just 
at  the  right  instant  he  made  one  quick,  steady 
swing  of  the  arms,  and — the  head  of  the  net  broke 
clean  off  the  handle  and  went  floating  away  with 
the  fish  in  it! 

All  seemed  to  be  lost.  But  Ferdinand  was  equal 
to  the  occasion.  He  seized  a  long,  crooked  stick 
that  lay  in  a  pile  of  driftwood  on  the  shore,  sprang 
into  the  water  up  to  his  waist,  caught  the  net  as  it 
drifted  past,  and  dragged  it  to  land,  with  the  ulti 
mate  salmon,  the  prize  of  the  season,  still  glittering 
through  its  meshes. 

This  is  the  story  of  my  most  thrilling  moment 
as  an  angler. 

But  which  was  the  moment  of  the  deepest  thrill  ? 

Was  it  when  the  huckleberry  bush  saved  me  from 
a  watery  grave,  or  when  the  log  rolled  under  my 


ioo  Stories 

feet  and  started  down  the  river?  Was  it  when  the 
fish  rose,  or  when  the  net  broke,  or  when  the  long 
stick  captured  it? 

No,  it  was  none  of  these.  It  was  when  the  Kri- 
karee  sat  with  his  legs  tucked  under  him  on  the 
brink  of  the  stream.  That  was  the  turning-point. 
The  fortunes  of  the  day  depended  on  the  compara 
tive  quickness  of  the  reflex  action  of  his  nerves  and 
mine.  That  was  the  thrilling  moment. 

I  see  it  now.  A  crisis  is  really  the  commonest 
thing  in  the  world.  The  reason  why  life  some 
times  seems  dull  to  us  is  because  we  do  not  perceive 
the  importance  and  the  excitement  of  getting  bait. 


THE   KEEPER   OF   THE   LIGHT 


WHEN  the  light-house  was  built,  many  years  ago, 
the  Isle  of  the  Wise  Virgin  had  another  name.  It 
was  called  the  Isle  of  Birds.  Thousands  of  sea- 
fowl  nested  there.  The  handful  of  people  who  lived 
on  the  shore  robbed  the  nests  and  slaughtered  the 
birds,  with  considerable  profit.  It  was  perceived  in 
advance  that  the  building  of  the  light-house  would 
interfere  with  this,  and  with  other  things.  Hence 
it  was  not  altogether  a  popular  improvement.  Mar 
cel  Thibault,  the  oldest  inhabitant,  was  the  leader 
of  the  opposition. 

'That  light-house!"  said  he,  "what  good  will  it 
be  for  us?  We  know  the  way  in  and  out  when  it 
makes  clear  weather,  by  day  or  by  night.  But 
when  the  sky  gets  cloudy,  when  it  makes  fog,  then 
we  stay  with  ourselves  at  home.  We  know  the 
way.  What?  The  stranger  boats?  The  stranger 
boats  need  not  to  come  here,  if  they  know  not 
the  way.  The  more  fish,  the  more  seals,  the  more 
everything  will  there  be  left  for  us.  Just  because 
of  the  stranger  boats,  to  build  something  that  makes 
all  the  birds  wild  and  spoils  the  hunting — that  is 

101 


IO2  Stories 

a  fool's  work.  The  good  God  made  no  stupid  light 
on  the  Isle  of  Birds.  He  saw  no  necessity  of  it. 

"Besides,"  continued  Thibault,  puffing  slowly  at 
his  pipe,  "besides — those  stranger  boats,  sometimes 
they  are  lost,  they  come  ashore.  It  is  sad!  But 
who  gets  the  things  that  are  saved,  all  sorts  of 
things,  good  to  put  into  our  houses,  good  to  eat, 
good  to  sell,  sometimes  a  boat  that  can  be  patched 
up  almost  like  new — who  gets  these  things,  eh? 
Doubtless  those  for  whom  the  good  God  intended 
them.  But  who  shall  get  them  when  this  light 
house  is  built,  eh?  Tell  me  that,  you  Baptiste 
Fortin." 

Fortin  represented  the  party  of  progress  in  the 
little  parliament  of  the  beach.  He  had  come  down 
from  Quebec  some  years  ago,  bringing  with  him  a 
wife  and  two  little  daughters,  and  a  good  many 
new  notions  about  life.  He  had  good  luck  at  the 
cod-fishing,  and  built  a  house  with  windows  at  the 
side  as  well  as  in  front.  When  his  third  girl,  Nata- 
line,  was  born,  he  went  so  far  as  to  paint  the  house 
red,  and  put  on  a  kitchen,  and  enclose  a  bit  of 
ground  for  a  yard.  This  marked  him  as  a  radical, 
an  innovator.  It  was  expected  that  he  would  de 
fend  the  building  of  the  light-house.  And  he  did. 

"Monsieur  Thibault,"  he  said,  "you  talk  well,  but 
you  talk  too  late.  It  is  of  a  past  age,  your  talk.  A 
new  time  comes  to  the  North  Shore.  We  begin 
to  civilize  ourselves.  To  hold  back  against  the 
light  would  be  our  shame.  This  light-house  means 
good :  good  for  us,  and  good  for  all  who  come  to 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  103 

this  coast.  It  will  bring  more  trade  to  us.  It  will 
bring  a  boat  with  the  mail,  with  newspapers,  per 
haps  once,  perhaps  twice  a  month,  all  through  the 
summer.  It  will  bring  us  into  the  great  world. 
To  lose  that  for  the  sake  of  a  few  birds  would  be 
a  pity.  Besides,  it  is  impossible.  The  light-house 
is  coming,  certain." 

Fortin  was  right,  of  course. 

The  light-house  arrived.  It  was  a  very  good 
house  for  that  day.  The  keeper's  dwelling  had 
three  rooms  and  was  solidly  built.  The  tower  was 
thirty  feet  high.  The  lantern  held  a  revolving 
light,  and  once  every  minute  it  was  turned  by 
clock-work,  flashing  a  broad  belt  of  radiance  fifteen 
miles  across  the  sea.  All  night  long  that  big  bright 
eye  was  opening  and  shutting.  "Look!"  said  Thi- 
bault,  "it  winks  like  a  one-eyed  Windigo." 

The  Department  of  Marine  and  Fisheries  sent 
down  an  expert  from  Quebec  to  keep  the  light  in 
order  and  run  it  for  the  first  summer.  He  took 
Fortin  as  his  assistant.  By  the  end  of  August  he 
reported  to  headquarters  that  the  light  was  all 
right,  and  that  Fortin  was  qualified  to  be  appointed 
keeper.  Before  October  was  out  the  certificate  of 
appointment  came  back,  and  the  expert  packed  his 
bag  to  go  up  the  river. 

"Now  look  here,  Fortin,"  said  he,  "this  is  no 
fishing  trip.  Do  you  think  you  are  up  to  this  job?" 

"I  suppose,"  said  Fortin. 

"Well  now,  do  you  remember  all  this  business 
about  the  machinery  that  turns  the  lantern  ?  That's 


IO4  Stories 

the  main  thing.  The  bearings  must  be  kept  well 
oiled,  and  the  weight  must  never  get  out  of  order. 
The  clock-face  will  tell  you  when  it  is  running 
right.  If  anything  gets  hitched  up,  here's  the  crank 
to  keep  it  going  until  you  can  straighten  the  ma 
chine  again.  It's  easy  enough  to  turn  it.  But  you 
must  never  let  it  stop  between  dark  and  daylight. 
The  regular  turn  once  a  minute — that's  the  mark 
of  this  light.  If  it  shines  steady  it  might  as  well 
be  out.  Yes,  better!  Any  vessel  coming  along 
here  in  a  dirty  night  and  seeing  a  fixed  light  would 
take  it  for  the  Cape  Seal  and  run  ashore.  This  par 
ticular  light  has  got  to  revolve  once  a  minute  every 
night  from  April  first  to  December  tenth,  certain. 
Can  you  do  it?" 

"Certain,"  said  Fortin. 

"That's  the  way  I  like  to  hear  a  man  talk !  Now, 
you've  got  oil  enough  to  last  you  through  till  the 
tenth  of  December,  when  you  close  the  light,  and 
to  run  on  for  a  month  in  the  spring  after  you  open 
again.  The  ice  may  be  late  in  going  out  and  per 
haps  the  supply-boat  can't  get  down  before  the 
middle  of  April,  or  thereabouts.  But  she'll  bring 
plenty  of  oil  when  she  comes,  so  you'll  be  all  right." 

"All  right,"  said  Fortin. 

"Well,  I've  said  it  all,  I  guess.  You  understand 
what  you've  got  to  do?  Good-by  and  good  luck. 
You're  the  keeper  of  the  light  now." 

"Good  luck,"  said  Fortin,  "I  am  going  to  keep  it." 

The  same  day  he  shut  up  the  red  house  on  the 
beach  and  moved  to  the  white  house  on  the  island 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  105 

with  Marie-Anne,  his  wife,  and  the  three  girls, 
Alma,  aged  seventeen,  Azilda,  aged  fifteen,  and 
Nataline,  aged  thirteen.  He  was  the  captain,  and 
Marie-Anne  was  the  mate,  and  the  three  girls  were 
the  crew.  They  were  all  as  full  of  happy  pride  as 
if  they  had  come  into  possession  of  a  great  fortune. 

It  was  the  thirty-first  day  of  October.  A  snow- 
shower  had  silvered  the  island.  The  afternoon  was 
clear  and  beautiful.  As  the  sun  sloped  toward  the 
rose-colored  hills  of  the  mainland  the  whole  family 
stood  out  in  front  of  the  light-house  looking  up  at 
the  tower. 

"Regard  him  well,  my  children,"  said  Baptiste; 
"God  has  given  him  to  us  to  keep,  and  to  keep  us. 
Thibault  says  he  is  a  Windigo.  Well !  We  shall 
see  that  he  is  a  friendly  Windigo.  Every  minute 
all  the  night  he  shall  wink,  just  for  kindness  and 
good  luck  to  all  the  world,  till  the  daylight." 


II 


On  the  ninth  of  November,  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  Baptiste  went  into  the  tower  to  see 
that  the  clock-work  was  in  order  for  the  night.  He 
set  the  dial  on  the  machine,  put  a  few  drops  of  oil 
on  the  bearings  of  the  cylinder,  and  started  to  wind 
up  the  weight. 

It  rose  a  few  inches,  gave  a  dull  click,  and  then 
stopped  dead.  He  tugged  a  little  harder,  but  it 


io6  Stories 

would  not  move.  Then  he  tried  to  let  it  down. 
He  pushed  at  the  lever  that  set  the  clock-work  in 
motion. 

Then  it  dawned  fearfully  upon  him  that  some 
thing  must  be  wrong.  Trembling  with  anxiety,  he 
climbed  up  and  peered  in  among  the  wheels. 

The  escapement  wheel  was  cracked  clean  through, 
as  if  someone  had  struck  it  with  the  head  of  an 
axe,  and  one  of  the  pallets  of  the  spindle  was  stuck 
fast  in  the  crack.  He  could  knock  it  out  easily 
enough,  but  when  the  crack  came  around  again  the 
pallet  would  catch  and  the  clock  would  stop  once 
more.  It  was  a  fatal  injury. 

No  matter  how  the  injury  to  the  clock-work  was 
done.  No  matter  who  was  to  be  blamed  or  pun 
ished  for  it.  That  could  wait.  The  question  now 
was  whether  the  light  would  fail  or  not.  And  it 
must  be  answered  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

" Marie- Anne !  Alma!"  he  shouted,  "all  of  you! 
To  me,  in  the  tower!" 

He  was  up  in  the  lantern  when  they  came  run 
ning  in,  full  of  curiosity,  excited,  asking  twenty 
questions  at  once.  Nataline  climbed  up  the  ladder 
and  put  her  head  through  the  trap-door. 

"What  is  it?"  she  panted.     "What  has  hap— 

"Go  down,"  answered  her  father,  "go  down  all 
at  once.  Wait  for  me.  I  am  coming.  I  will 
explain." 

The  explanation  was  not  altogether  lucid  and 
scientific.  There  were  some  bad  words  mixed  up 
with  it. 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  107 

Baptiste  was  still  hot  with  anger  and  the  unsat 
isfied  desire  to  whip  somebody,  he  did  not  know 
whom,  for  something,  he  did  not  know  what.  But 
angry  as  he  was,  he  was  still  sane  enough  to  hold 
his  mind  hard  and  close  to  the  main  point.  The 
crank  must  be  adjusted;  the  machine  must  be  ready 
to  turn  before  dark.  While  he  worked  he  hastily 
made  the  situation  clear  to  his  listeners. 

That  crank  must  be  turned  by  hand,  round  and 
round  all  night,  not  too  slow,  not  too  fast.  The 
dial  on  the  machine  must  mark  time  with  the  clock 
on  the  wall.  The  light  must  flash  once  every  min 
ute  until  daybreak.  He  would  do  as  much  of  the 
labor  as  he  could,  but  the  wife  and  the  two  older 
girls  must  help  him.  Nataline  could  go  to  bed. 

At  this  Nataline's  short  upper  lip  trembled.  She 
rubbed  her  eyes  with  the  sleeve  of  her  dress,  and 
began  to  weep  silently. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  said  her  mother ; 
"bad  child,  have  you  fear  to  sleep  alone?  A  big 
girl  like  you !" 

"No,"  she  sobbed,  "I  have  no  fear,  but  I  want 
some  of  the  fun." 

"Fun!"  growled  her  father.  "What  fun?  She 
calls  this  fun !"  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
as  she  stood  there,  half-defiant,  half -despondent, 
with  her  red  mouth  quivering  and  her  big  brown 
eyes  sparkling  fire;  then  he  burst  into  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"Come  here,  my  little  wild-cat,"  he  said,  draw 
ing  her  to  him  and  kissing  her;  "you  are  a  good 


io8  Stories 

girl  after  all.  I  suppose  you  think  this  light  is  part 
yours,  eh?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Well!  You  shall  have  your  share,  fun  and  all. 
You  shall  make  the  tea  for  us  and  bring  us  some 
thing  to  eat.  Perhaps  when  Alma  and  'Zilda 
fatigue  themselves  they  will  permit  a  few  turns  of 
the  crank  to  you.  Are  you  content  ?  Run  now  and 
boil  the  kettle." 

It  was  a  very  long  night.  No  matter  how  easily 
a  handle  turns,  after  a  certain  number  of  revolu 
tions  there  is  a  stiffness  about  it.  The  stiffness  is 
not  in  the  handle,  but  in  the  hand  that  pushes  it. 

Round  and  round,  evenly,  steadily,  minute  after 
minute,  hour  after  hour,  shoving  out,  drawing  in, 
circle  after  circle,  no  swerving,  no  stopping,  no 
varying  the  motion,  turn  after  turn — fifty-five, 
fifty-six,  fifty-seven — what's  the  use  of  counting? 
Watch  the  dial;  go  to  sleep — no!  for  God's  sake, 
no  sleep  !  But  how  hard  it  is  to  keep  awake !  How 
heavy  the  arm  grows,  how  stiffly  the  muscles  move, 
how  the  will  creaks  and  groans !  It  is  not  easy 
for  a  human  being  to  become  part  of  a  machine. 

Fortin  himself  took  the  longest  spell  at  the 
crank,  of  course.  He  went  at  his  work  with  a  rigid 
courage.  His  red-hot  anger  had  cooled  down  into 
a  shape  that  was  like  a  bar  of  forged  steel.  He 
meant  to  make  that  light  revolve  if  it  killed  him  to 
do  it.  He  was  the  captain  of  a  company  that  had 
run  into  an  ambuscade.  He  was  going  to  fight  his 
way  through  if  he  had  to  fight  alone. 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  109 

The  wife  and  the  two  older  girls  followed  him 
blindly  and  bravely,  in  the  habit  of  sheer  obedience. 
They  did  not  quite  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
task,  the  honor  of  victory,  the  shame  of  defeat. 
But  Fortin  said  it  must  be  done,  and  he  knew  best. 
So  they  took  their  places  in  turn,  as  he  grew  weary, 
and  kept  the  light  flashing. 

And  Nataline — well,  there  is  no  way  of  describ 
ing  what  Nataline  did,  except  to  say  that  she  played 
the  fife. 

She  felt  the  contest  just  as  her  father  did,  not  as 
deeply,  perhaps,  but  in  the  same  spirit.  She  went 
into  the  fight  with  darkness  like  a  little  soldier. 
And  she  played  the  fife. 

When  she  came  up  from  the  kitchen  with  the 
smoking  pail  of  tea,  she  rapped  on  the  door  and 
called  out  to  know  whether  the  Windigo  was  at 
home  to-night. 

She  ran  in  and  out  of  the  place  like  a  squirrel. 
She  looked  up  at  the  light  and  laughed.  Then  she 
ran  in  and  reported.  "He  winks,"  she  said,  "old 
one-eye  winks  beautifully.  Keep  him  going.  My 
turn  now !" 

She  refused  to  be  put  off  with  a  shorter  spell  than 
the  other  girls.  "No,"  she  cried,  "I  can  do  it  as 
well  as  you.  You  think  you  are  so  much  older. 
Well,  what  of  that?  The  light  is  part  mine;  father 
said  so.  Let  me  turn." 

When  the  first  glimmer  of  the  little  day  came 
shivering  along  the  eastern  horizon,  Nataline  was 
at  the  crank.  The  mother  and  the  two  older  girls 


no  Stories 

were  half-asleep.  Baptiste  stepped  out  to  look  at 
the  sky.  "Come,"  he  cried,  returning.  "We  can 
stop  now,  it  is  growing  gray  in  the  east,  almost 
morning." 

"But  not  yet,"  said  Nataline;  "we  must  wait  for 
the  first  red.  A  few  more  turns.  Let's  finish  it  up 
with  a  song." 

She  shook  her  head  and  piped  up  the  refrain  of 
an  old  Canadian  ballad.  And  to  that  cheerful 
music  the  first  night's  battle  was  carried  through 
to  victory. 

The  next  day  Fortin  spent  two  hours  in  trying  to 
repair  the  clock-work.  It  was  of  no  use.  The  broken 
part  was  indispensable  and  could  not  be  replaced. 

At  noon  he  went  over  to  the  main-land  to  tell  of 
the  disaster,  and  perhaps  to  find  out  if  any  hostile 
hand  was  responsible  for  it.  He  found  out  noth 
ing.  Everyone  denied  all  knowledge  of  the  acci 
dent.  Perhaps  there  was  a  flaw  in  the  wheel ;  per 
haps  it  had  broken  itself.  That  was  possible. 
Fortin  could  not  deny  it;  but  the  thing  that  hurt 
him  most  was  that  he  got  so  little  sympathy.  No 
body  seemed  to  care  whether  the  light  was  kept 
burning  or  not.  When  he  told  them  how  the 
machine  had  been  turned  all  night  by  hand,  they 
were  astonished.  "Thunder !"  they  cried,  "you 
must  have  had  great  misery  to  do  that."  But  that 
he  proposed  to  go  on  doing  it  for  a  month  longer, 
until  December  tenth,  and  to  begin  again  on  April 
first,  and  go  on  turning  the  light  by  hand  for  three 
or  four  weeks  more  until  the  supply-boat  came 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  1 1 1 

down  and  brought  the  necessary  tools  to  repair  the 
machine — such  an  idea  as  this  went  beyond  their 
horizon. 

"But  you  are  crazy,  Baptiste,"  they  said;  "you 
can  never  do  it;  you  are  not  capable." 

"I  would  be  crazy,"  he  answered,  "if  I  did  not 
see  what  I  must  do.  That  light  is  my  charge. 
In  all  the  world  there  is  nothing  else  so  great  as 
that  for  me  and  for  my  family — you  understand? 
For  us  it  is  the  chief  thing.  It  is  my  Ten  Com 
mandments.  I  shall  keep  it." 

After  a  while  he  continued :  "I  want  someone  to 
help  me  with  the  work  on  the  island.  We  must 
be  up  all  the  nights  now.  By  day  we  must  get 
some  sleep.  I  want  another  man  or  a  strong  boy. 
Is  there  any  who  will  come  ?  The  Government  will 
pay.  Or  if  not,  I  will  pay,  myself." 

This  appeal  was  of  no  avail  until  Thibault's 
youngest  son,  Marcel,  a  well-grown  boy  of  six 
teen,  volunteered. 

So  the  little  Marcel  was  enlisted  in  the  crew  on 
the  island.  For  thirty  nights  those  six  people — a 
man,  and  a  boy,  and  four  women  (Nataline  was 
not  going  to  submit  to  any  distinctions  on  the  score 
of  age,  you  may  be  sure) — for  a  full  month  they 
turned  their  flashing  lantern  by  hand  from  dusk  to 
daybreak. 

The  fog,  the  frost,  the  hail,  the  snow  beleaguered 
their  tower.  Hunger  and  cold,  sleeplessness  and 
weariness,  pain  and  discouragement,  held  rendez 
vous  in  that  dismal,  cramped  little  room.  Many  a 


ii2  Stories 

night  Nataline's  fife  of  fun  played  a  feeble,  wheezy 
note.  But  it  played.  And  the  crank  went  round. 
And  every  bit  of  glass  in  the  lantern  was  as  clear 
as  polished  crystal.  And  the  big  lamp  was  full  of 
oil.  And  the  great  eye  of  the  friendly  giant  winked 
without  ceasing,  through  fierce  storm  and  placid 
moonlight. 

When  the  tenth  of  December  came,  the  light 
went  to  sleep  for  the  winter,  and  the  keepers  took 
their  way  across  the  ice  to  the  main-land.  They 
had  won  the  battle,  not  only  on  the  island,  fight 
ing  against  the  elements,  but  also  at  Dead  Men's 
Point,  against  public  opinion.  The  inhabitants  be 
gan  to  understand  that  the  light-house  meant  some 
thing — a  law,  an  order,  a  principle. 

When  the  time  arrived  to  kindle  the  light  again 
in  the  spring,  Fortin  could  have  had  anyone  that 
he  wanted  to  help  him.  But  no ;  he  chose  the  little 
Marcel  again;  the  boy  wanted  to  go,  and  he  had 
earned  the  right.  Besides,  he  and  Nataline  had 
struck  up  a  close  friendship  on  the  island,  cemented 
during  the  winter  by  various  hunting  excursions 
after  hares  and  ptarmigan.  Marcel  was  a  skilful 
setter  of  snares.  But  Nataline  was  not  content 
until  she  had  won  consent  to  borrow  her  father's 
rifle.  They  hunted  in  partnership.  One  day  they 
had  shot  a  fox.  That  is,  Nataline  had  shot  it, 
though  Marcel  had  seen  it  first  and  tracked  it. 
Now  they  wanted  to  try  for  a  seal  on  the  point  of 
the  island  when  the  ice  went  out.  It  was  quite 
essential  that  Marcel  should  go. 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  113 

But  there  was  not  much  play  in  the  spring  ses 
sion  with  the  light  on  the  island.  It  was  a  bitter 
job.  December  had  been  lamb-like  compared  with 
April.  First,  the  southeast  wind  kept  the  ice  driv 
ing  in  along  the  shore.  Then  the  northwest  wind 
came  hurtling  down  from  the  Arctic  wilderness  like 
a  pack  of  wolves.  There  was  a  snow-storm  of  four 
days  and  nights  that  made  the  whole  world — earth 
and  sky  and  sea — look  like  a  crazy  white  chaos. 
And  through  it  all,  that  weary,  dogged  crank  must 
be  kept  turning — turning  from  dark  to  daylight. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  supply-boat  would  never 
come.  At  last  they  saw  it,  one  fair  afternoon,  April 
the  .twenty-ninth,  creeping  slowly  down  the  coast. 
They  were  just  getting  ready  for  another  night's 
work. 

Fortin  ran  out  of  the  tower,  took  off  his  hat, 
and  began  to  say  his  prayers.  The  wife  and  the 
two  elder  girls  stood  in  the  kitchen  door,  crossing 
themselves,  with  tears  in  their  eyes.  Marcel  and 
Nataline  were  coming  up  from  the  point  of  the 
island,  where  they  had  been  watching  for  their  seal. 
She  was  singing.  When  she  saw  the  boat  she 
stopped  short  for  a  minute. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "they  find  us  awake.  And  if 
they  don't  come  faster  than  that  we'll  have  an 
other  chance  to  show  them  how  we  make  the  light 
wink,  eh?" 

Then  she  went  on  with  her  song. 


H4  Stories 

III 

Nataline  grew  up  like  a  young  birch-tree — 
stately  and  strong,  good  to  look  at.  She  was  beau 
tiful  in  her  place ;  she  fitted  it  exactly.  Her  bronzed 
face  with  an  under-tinge  of  red ;  her  low,  black  eye 
brows;  her  clear  eyes  like  the  brown  waters  of  a 
woodland  stream;  her  dark,  curly  hair  with  little 
tendrils  always  blowing  loose  around  the  pillar  of 
her  neck;  her  broad  breast  and  sloping  shoulders; 
her  firm,  fearless  step ;  her  voice,  rich  and  vibrant ; 
her  straight,  steady  looks — but  there,  who  can  de 
scribe  a  thing  like  that?  I  tell  you  she  was  a  girl 
to  love  out-of-doors. 

There  was  nothing  that  she  could  not  do.  She 
could  cook ;  she  could  swing  an  axe ;  she  could  pad 
dle  a  canoe ;  she  could  fish ;  she  could  shoot ;  and, 
best  of  all,  she  could  run  the  light-house.  Her 
father's  devotion  to  it  had  gone  into  her  blood.  It 
was  the  centre  of  her  life,  her  law  of  God.  There 
was  nothing  about  it  that  she  did  not  understand 
and  love.  She  lived  by  it  and  for  it. 

There  were  no  more  accidents  to  the  clock-work 
after  the  first  one  was  repaired.  It  ran  on  regu 
larly,  year  after  year. 

Alma  and  Azilda  were  married  and  went  away 
to  live,  one  on  the  South  Shore,  the  other  at  Que 
bec.  Nataline  was  her  father's  right-hand  man. 
As  the  rheumatism  took  hold  of  him  and  lamed  his 
shoulders  and  wrists,  more  and  more  of  the  work 
fell  upon  her.  She  was  proud  of  it. 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  115 

At  last  it  came  to  pass,  one  day  in  January,  that 
Baptiste  died.  The  men  dug  through  the  snow 
behind  the  tiny  chapel  at  Dead  Men's  Point,  and 
made  a  grave  for  him,  and  the  young  priest  of  the 
mission  read  the  funeral  service  over  it. 

It  went  without  saying  that  Nataline  was  to  be 
the  keeper  of  the  light,  at  least  until  the  supply- 
boat  came  down  again  in  the  spring  and  orders 
arrived  from  the  Government  in  Quebec.  Why 
not  ?  She  was  a  woman,  it  is  true.  But  if  a  woman 
can  do  a  thing  as  well  as  a  man,  why  should  she 
not  do  it?  Besides,  Nataline  could  do  this  particu 
lar  thing  much  better  than  any  man  on  the  Point. 
Everybody  approved  of  her  as  the  heir  of  her 
father,  especially  young  Marcel  Thibault. 

What? 

Yes,  of  course.  You  could  not  help  guessing  it. 
He  was  Nataline's  lover.  They  were  to  be  married 
the  next  summer.  They  sat  together  in  the  best 
room,  while  the  old  mother  was  rocking  to  and  fro 
and  knitting  beside  the  kitchen  stove,  and  talked 
of  what  they  were  going  to  do.  Their  talk  was 
mainly  of  the  future,  because  they  were  young, 
and  of  the  light,  because  Nataline's  life  belonged 
to  it. 

That  winter  was  a  bad  one  on  the  North  Shore, 
and  particularly  at  Dead  Men's  Point.  It  was 
terribly  bad.  The  summer  before,  the  fishing  had 
been  almost  a  dead  failure.  In  June  a  wild  storm 
had  smashed  all  the  salmon  nets  and  swept  most 
of  them  away.  In  July  they  could  find  no  caplin 


1 1 6  Stories 

for  bait  for  the  cod-fishing,  and  in  August  and 
September  they  could  find  no  cod.  The  few  bush 
els  of  potatoes  that  some  of  the  inhabitants  had 
planted  rotted  in  the  ground.  The  people  at  the 
Point  went  into  the  winter  short  of  money  and  very 
short  of  food. 

There  were  some  supplies  at  the  store,  pork  and 
flour  and  molasses,  and  they  could  run  through  the 
year  on  credit  and  pay  their  debts  the  following 
summer  if  the  fish  came  back.  But  this  resource 
also  failed  them.  In  the  last  week  of  January  the 
store  caught  fire  and  burned  up.  Nothing  was 
saved.  The  only  hope  now  was  the  seal-hunting  in 
February  and  March  and  April.  That  at  least 
would  bring  them  meat  and  oil  enough  to  keep  them 
from  starvation. 

But  this  hope  failed,  too.  The  winds  blew  strong 
from  the  north  and  west,  driving  the  ice  far  out 
into  the  gulf.  The  chase  was  long  and  perilous. 
The  seals  were  few  and  wild.  Less  than  a  dozen 
were  killed  in  all.  By  the  last  week  in  March  Dead 
Men's  Point  stood  face  to  face  with  famine. 

Then  it  was  that  old  Thibault  had  an  idea. 

"There  is  sperm  oil  on  the  Island  of  Birds,"  said 
he,  "in  the  light-house,  plenty  of  it,  gallons  of  it. 
It  is  not  very  good  to  taste,  perhaps,  but  what  of 
that?  It  will  keep  life  in  the  body.  The  Esqui 
maux  drink  it  in  the  north,  often.  We  must  take 
the  oil  of  the  light-house  to  keep  us  from  starving 
until  the  supply-boat  comes  down." 

"But  how  shall  we  get  it?"  asked  the  others. 


I  am  the  keeper  of  the  light." 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  117 

"It  is  locked  up.  Nataline  Fortin  has  the  key. 
Will  she  give  it?" 

"Give  it  ?"  growled  Thibault.  "Name  of  a  name ! 
of  course  she  will  give  it.  She  must.  Is  not  a  life, 
the  life  of  all  of  us,  more  than  a  light?" 

A  self-appointed  committee  of  three,  with  Thi 
bault  at  the  head,  waited  upon  Nataline  without 
delay,  told  her  their  plan,  and  asked  for  the  key. 
She  thought  it  over  silently  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  refused  point-blank. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  will  not  give  the  key.  That 
oil  is  for  the  lamp.  If  you  take  it,  the  lamp  will 
not  be  lighted  on  the  first  of  April;  it  will  not  be 
burning  when  the  supply-boat  comes.  For  me,  that 
would  be  shame,  disgrace,  worse  than  death.  I  am 
the  keeper  of  the  light.  You  shall  not  have  the 
oil." 

They  argued  with  her,  pleaded  with  her,  tried  to 
browbeat  her.  She  was  a  rock.  Her  round  under- 
jaw  was  set  like  a  steel  trap.  Her  lips  straightened 
into  a  white  line.  Her  eyebrows  drew  together, 
and  her  eyes  grew  black. 

"No,"  she  cried,  "I  tell  you  no,  no,  a  thousand 
times  no.  All  in  this  house  I  will  share  with  you. 
But  not  one  drop  of  what  belongs  to  the  light! 
Never !" 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  priest  came  to  see  her ; 
a  thin,  pale  young  man,  bent  with  the  hardships  of 
his  life,  and  with  sad  dreams  in  his  sunken  eyes. 
He  talked  with  her  very  gently  and  kindly. 

"Think  well,  my  daughter;  think  seriously  what 


1 1 8  Stories 

you  do.  Is  it  not  our  first  duty  to  save  human  life  ? 
Surely  that  must  be  according  to  the  will  of  God. 
Will  you  refuse  to  obey  it?" 

Nataline  was  trembling  a  little  now.  Her  brows 
were  unlocked.  The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  and 
ran  down  her  cheeks.  She  was  twisting  her  hands 
together. 

"My  father,"  she  answered,  "I  desire  to  do  the 
will  of  God.  But  how  shall  I  know  it?  Is  it  not 
His  first  command  that  we  should  serve  Him  faith 
fully  in  the  duty  which  He  has  given  us  ?  He  gave 
me  this  light  to  keep.  My  father  kept  it.  He  is 
dead.  If  I  am  unfaithful  what  will  he  say  to  me? 
Besides,  the  supply-boat  is  coming  soon — I  have 
thought  of  this — when  it  comes  it  will  bring  food. 
But  if  the  light  is  out,  the  boat  may  be  lost.  That 
would  be  the  punishment  for  my  sin.  No,  we  must 
trust  God.  He  will  keep  the  people.  I  will  keep 
the  light." 

The  priest  looked  at  her  long  and  steadily.  A 
glow  came  into  his  face.  He  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  "You  shall  follow  your  conscience,"  he 
said  quietly.  "Peace  be  with  you,  Nataline." 

That  evening  just  at  dark  Marcel  came.  She  let 
him  take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her.  She  felt 
like  a  little  child,  tired  and  weak. 

"Well,"  he  whispered,  "you  have  done  bravely, 
sweetheart.  You  were  right  not  to  give  the  key. 
That  would  have  been  a  shame  to  you.  But  it  is 
all  settled  now.  They  will  have  the  oil  without 
your  fault.  To-night  they  are  going  out  to  the 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  119 

light-house  to  break  in  and  take  what  they  want. 

You  need  not  know.    There  will  be  no  blame " 

She  straightened  in  his  arms  as  if  an  electric 
shock  had  passed  through  her.  She  sprang  back, 
blazing  with  anger. 

"What?"  she  cried,  "me  a  thief  by  roundabout 
— with  my  hand  behind  my  back  and  my  eyes  shut  ? 
Never.  Do  you  think  I  care  only  for  the  blame? 
I  tell  you  that  is  nothing.  My  light  shall  not  be 
robbed,  never,  never!" 

She  came  close  to  him  and  took  him  by  the  shoul 
ders.  Their  eyes  were  on  a  level.  He  was  a  strong 
man,  but  she  was  the  stronger  then. 

"Marcel  Thibault,"  she  said,  "do  you  love  me?" 
"My  faith,"  he  gasped,  "I  do.  You  know  I  do." 
"Then  listen,"  she  continued;  "this  is  what  you 
are  going  to  do.  You  are  going  down  to  the  shore 
at  once  to  make  ready  the  big  canoe.  I  am  going 
to  get  food  enough  to  last  us  for  the  month.  It 
will  be  a  hard  pinch,  but  it  will  do.  Then  we  are 
going  out  to  the  island  to-night,  in  less  than  an 
hour.  Day  after  to-morrow  is  the  first  of  April. 
Then  we  shall  light  the  lantern,  and  it  shall  burn 
every  night  until  the  boat  comes  down.  You  hear? 
Now  go:  and  be  quick:  and  bring  your  gun." 


1 20  Stories 

IV 

They  pushed  off  in  the  black  darkness,  among 
the  fragments  of  ice  that  lay  along  the  shore.  They 
crossed  the  strait  in  silence,  and  hid  their  canoe 
among  the  rocks  on  the  island.  They  carried  their 
stuff  up  to  the  house  and  locked  it  in  the  kitchen. 
Then  they  unlocked  the  tower,  and  went  in,  Marcel 
with  his  shot-gun,  and  Nataline  with  her  father's 
old  rifle.  They  fastened  the  door  again,  and  bolted 
it,  and  sat  down  in  the  dark  to  wait. 

Presently  they  heard  the  grating  of  the  prow  of 
the  barge  on  the  stones  below,  the  steps  of  men 
stumbling  up  the  steep  path,  and  voices  mingled  in 
confused  talk.  The  glimmer  of  a  couple  of  lan 
terns  went  bobbing  in  and  out  among  the  rocks  and 
bushes.  There  was  a  little  crowd  of  eight  or  ten 
men,  and  they  came  on  carelessly,  chattering  and 
laughing.  Three  of  them  carried  axes,  and  three 
others  a  heavy  log  of  wood  which  they  had  picked 
up  on  their  way. 

"The  log  is  better  than  the  axes,"  said  one; 
"take  it  in  your  hands  this  way,  two  of  you  on  one 
side,  another  on  the  opposite  side  in  the  middle. 
Then  swing  it  back  and  forward  and  let  it  go. 
The  door  will  come  down,  I  tell  you,  like  a  sheet 
of  paper.  But  wait  till  I  give  the  word,  then  swing 
hard.  One— two " 

"Stop!"  cried  Nataline,  throwing  open  the  little 
window.  "If  you  dare  to  touch  that  door,  I  shoot." 

She  thrust  out  the  barrel  of  the  rifle,  and  Mar- 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  121 

eel's  shot-gun  appeared  beside  it.  The  old  rifle  was 
not  loaded,  but  who  knew  that  ?  Besides,  both  bar 
rels  of  the  shot-gun  were  full. 

There  was  amazement  in  the  crowd  outside  the 
tower,  and  consternation,  and  then  anger. 

The  gang  muttered,  cursed,  threatened,  looked 
at  the  guns,  and  went  off  to  their  boat. 

"It  is  murder  that  you  will  do,"  one  of  them 
called  out ;  "you  are  a  murderess,  you  Mademoiselle 
Fortin!  you  cause  the  people  to  die  of  hunger!" 

"Not  I,"  she  answered ;  "that  is  as  the  good  God 
pleases.  No  matter.  The  light  shall  burn." 

The  next  day  they  put  the  light  in  order,  and  the 
following  night  they  kindled  it.  They  still  feared 
another  attack  from  the  mainland,  and  thought  it 
needful  that  one  of  them  should  be  on  guard  all  the 
time,  though  the  machine  itself  was  working  beau 
tifully  and  needed  little  watching.  Nataline  took 
the  night  duty ;  it  was  her  own  choice ;  she  loved  the 
charge  of  the  lamp.  Marcel  was  on  duty  through 
the  day.  They  were  together  for  three  or  four 
hours  in  the  morning  and  in  the  evening. 

It  was  not  a  desperate  vigil  like  that  affair  with 
the  broken  clock-work  eight  years  before.  There 
was  no  weary  turning  of  the  crank.  There  was 
just  enough  work  to  do  about  the  house  and  the 
tower  to  keep  them  busy.  The  weather  was  fair. 
The  worst  thing  was  the  short  supply  of  food.  But 
though  they  were  hungry,  they  were  not  starving. 
And  Nataline  still  played  the  fife.  She  jested,  she 
sang,  she  told  long  fairy  stories  while  they  sat  in 


122  Stories 

the  kitchen.  Marcel  admitted  that  it  was  not  at  all 
a  bad  arrangement. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  twenty-seventh  of  April 
the  clouds  came  down  from  the  north,  not  a  long 
furious  tempest,  but  a  brief,  sharp  storm,  with  con 
siderable  wind  and  a  whirling,  blinding  fall  of 
April  snow.  It  was  a  bad  night  for  boats  at  sea, 
confusing,  bewildering,  a  night  when  the  lighthouse 
had  to  do  its  best.  Nataline  was  in  the  tower  all 
night,  tending  the  lamp,  watching  the  clock-work. 
Once  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  lantern  was  so  cov 
ered  with  snow  that  light  could  not  shine  through. 
She  got  her  long  brush  and  scraped  the  snow  away. 
It  was  cold  work,  but  she  gloried  in  it.  The  bright 
eye  of  the  tower,  winking,  winking  steadily  through 
the  storm,  seemed  to  be  the  sign  of  her  power  in 
the  world.  It  was  hers.  She  kept  it  shining. 

When  morning  came  the  wind  was  still  blowing 
fitfully  offshore,  but  the  snow  had  almost  ceased. 
Nataline  stopped  the  clock-work,  and  was  just 
climbing  up  into  the  lantern  to  put  out  the  lamp, 
when  Marcel's  voice  hailed  her. 

"Come  down,  Nataline,  come  down  quick.  Make 
haste!" 

She  turned  and  hurried  out,  not  knowing  what 
was  to  come;  perhaps  a  message  of  trouble  from 
the  main-land,  perhaps  a  new  assault  on  the  light 
house. 

As  she  came  out  of  the  tower,  her  brown  eyes 
heavy  from  the  night-watch,  her  dark  face  pale 
from  the  cold,  she  saw  Marcel  standing  on  the 


The  Keeper  of  the  Light  123 

rocky  knoll  beside  the  house  and  pointing  shore 
ward. 

She  ran  up  beside  him  and  looked.  There,  in 
the  deep  water  between  the  island  and  the  point, 
lay  the  supply-boat,  rocking  quietly  on  the  waves. 

It  flashed  upon  her  in  a  moment  what  it  meant — 
the  end  of  her  fight,  relief  for  the  village,  victory! 
And  the  light  that  had  guided  the  little  ship  safe 
through  the  stormy  night  into  the  harbor  was  hers. 

She  turned  and  looked  up  at  the  lamp,  still 
burning. 

"I  kept  you!"  she  cried. 

Then  she  turned  to  Marcel ;  the  color  rose  quickly 
in  her  cheeks,  the  light  sparkled  in  her  eyes ;  she 
smiled,  and  held  out  both  her  hands,  whispering, 
"Now  you  shall  keep  me!" 

There  was  a  fine  wedding  on  the  last  day  of 
April,  and  from  that  time  the  island  took  its  new 
name — the  Isle  of  the  Wise  Virgin. 


A   HANDFUL   OF  CLAY 

THERE  was  a  handful  of  clay  in  the  bank  of  a 
river.  It  was  only  common  clay,  coarse  and  heavy ; 
but  it  had  high  thoughts  of  its  own  value,  and 
wonderful  dreams  of  the  great  place  which  it  was 
to  fill  in  the  world  when  the  time  came  for  its 
virtues  to  be  discovered. 

Overhead,  in  the  spring  sunshine,  the  trees  whis 
pered  together  of  the  glory  which  descended  upon 
them  when  the  delicate  blossoms  and  leaves  began 
to  expand,  and  the  forest  glowed  with  fair,  clear 
colors,  as  if  the  dust  of  thousands  of  rubies  and 
emeralds  were  hanging,  in  soft  clouds,  above  the 
earth. 

The  flowers,  surprised  with  the  joy  of  beauty, 
bent  their  heads  to  one  another,  as  the  wind  ca 
ressed  them,  and  said :  "Sisters,  how  lovely  you 
have  become.  You  make  the  day  bright." 

The  river,  glad  of  new  strength  and  rejoicing 
in  the  unison  of  all  its  waters,  murmured  to  the 
shores  in  music,  telling  of  its  release  from  icy  fet 
ters,  its  swift  flight  from  the  snow-clad  mountains, 
and  the  mighty  work  to  which  it  was  hurrying — 
the  wheels  of  many  mills  to  be  turned,  and  great 
ships  to  be  floated  to  the  sea. 
124 


A  Handful  of  Clay  125 

Waiting  blindly  in  its  bed,  the  clay  comforted 
itself  with  lofty  hopes.  "My  time  will  come,"  it 
said.  "I  was  not  made  to  be  hidden  forever.  Glory 
and  beauty  and  honor  are  coming  to  me  in  due 
season." 

One  day  the  clay  felt  itself  taken  from  the  place 
where  it  had  waited  so  long.  A  flat  blade  of  iron 
passed  beneath  it,  and  lifted  it,  and  tossed  it  into 
a  cart  with  other  lumps  of  clay,  and  it  was  carried 
far  away,  as  it  seemed,  over  a  rough  and  stony 
road.  But  it  was  not  afraid,  nor  discouraged,  for 
it  said  to  itself:  "This  is  necessary.  The  path  to 
glory  is  always  rugged.  Now  I  am  on  my  way  to 
play  a  great  part  in  the  world." 

But  the  hard  journey  was  nothing  compared 
with  the  tribulation  and  distress  that  came  after 
it.  The  clay  was  put  into  a  trough  and  mixed  and 
beaten  and  stirred  and  trampled.  It  seemed  almost 
unbearable.  But  there  was  consolation  in  the 
thought  that  something  very  fine  and  noble  was 
certainly  coming  out  of  all  this  trouble.  The  clay 
felt  sure  that,  if  it  could  only  wait  long  enough, 
a  wonderful  reward  was  in  store  for  it. 

Then  it  was  put  upon  a  swiftly  turning  wheel, 
and  whirled  around  until  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  fly 
into  a  thousand  pieces.  A  strange  power  pressed 
it  and  moulded  it,  as  it  revolved,  and  through  all 
the  dizziness  and  pain  it  felt  that  it  was  taking  a 
new  form. 

Then  an  unknown  hand  put  it  into  an  oven,  and 
fires  were  kindled  about  it — fierce  and  penetrating 


126  Stories 

— hotter  than  all  the  heats  of  summer  that  had 
ever  brooded  upon  the  bank  of  the  river.  But 
through  all,  the  clay  held  itself  together  and  en 
dured  its  trials,  in  the  confidence  of  a  great  future. 
"Surely,"  it  thought,  "I  am  intended  for  some 
thing  very  splendid,  since  such  pains  are  taken 
with  me.  Perhaps  I  am  fashioned  for  the  orna 
ment  of  a  temple,  or  a  precious  vase  for  the  table 
of  a  king." 

At  last  the  baking  was  finished.  The  clay  was 
taken  from  the  furnace  and  set  down  upon  a  board, 
in  the  cool  air,  under  the  blue  sky.  The  tribulation 
was  passed.  The  reward  was  at  hand. 

Close  beside  the  board  there  was  a  pool  of  water, 
not  very  deep,  nor  very  clear,  but  calm  enough  to 
reflect,  with  impartial  truth,  every  image  that  fell 
upon  it.  There,  for  the  first  time,  as  it  was  lifted 
from  the  board,  the  clay  saw  its  new  shape,  the 
reward  of  all  its  patience  and  pain,  the  consum 
mation  of  its  hopes — a  common  flower-pot,  straight 
and  stiff,  red  and  ugly.  And  then  it  felt  that  it 
was  not  destined  for  a  king's  house,  nor  for  a  pal 
ace  of  art,  because  it  was  made  without  glory  or 
beauty  or  honor;  and  it  murmured  against  the  un 
known  maker,  saying,  "Why  hast  thou  made  me 
thus?" 

Many  days  it  passed  in  sullen  discontent.  Then 
it  was  filled  with  earth,  and  something — it  knew 
not  what — but  something  rough  and  brown  and 
dead-looking,  was  thrust  into  the  middle  of  the 
earth  and  covered  over.  The  clay  rebelled  at  this 


A  Handful  of  Clay  127 

new  disgrace.  "This  is  the  worst  of  all  that  has 
happened  to  me,  to  be  filled  with  dirt  and  rubbish. 
Surely  I  am  a  failure." 

But  presently  it  was  set  in  a  greenhouse,  where 
the  sunlight  fell  warm  upon  it,  and  water  was 
sprinkled  over  it,  and  day  by  day  as  it  waited,  a 
change  began  to  come  to  it.  Something  was  stir 
ring  within  it — a  new  hope.  Still  it  was  ignorant, 
and  knew  not  what  the  new  hope  meant. 

One  day  the  clay  was  lifted  again  from  its  place, 
and  carried  into  a  great  church.  Its  dream  was 
coming  true  after  all.  It  had  a  fine  part  to  play  in 
the  world.  Glorious  music  flowed  over  it.  It  was 
surrounded  with  flowers.  Still  it  could  not  under 
stand.  So  it  whispered  to  another  vessel  of  clay, 
like  itself,  close  beside  it,  "Why  have  they  set  me 
here?  Why  do  all  the  people  look  toward  us?" 
And  the  other  vessel  answered,  "Do  you  not  know  ? 
You  are  carrying  a  royal  sceptre  of  lilies.  Their 
petals  are  white  as  snow,  and  the  heart  of  them  is 
like  pure  gold.  The  people  look  this  way  because 
the  flower  is  the  most  wonderful  in  the  world.  And 
the  root  of  it  is  in  your  heart." 

Then  the  clay  was  content,  and  silently  thanked 
its  maker,  because,  though  an  earthen  vessel,  it 
held  so  great  a  treasure. 


THE   FIRST   CHRISTMAS-TREE 


THE  day  before  Christmas,  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord  724.  A  little  company  of  pilgrims,  less  than 
a  score  of  men,  were  travelling  slowly  northward 
through  the  wide  forests  that  rolled  over  the  hills 
of  central  Germany.  At  the  head  of  the  band 
marched  Winfried  of  England,  whose  name  in  the 
Roman  tongue  was  Boniface,  and  whom  men  called 
the  Apostle  of  Germany.  A  great  preacher ;  a  won 
derful  scholar;  but,  more  than  all,  a  daring  trav 
eller,  a  venturesome  pilgrim,  a  priest  of  romance. 

He  had  left  his  home  and  his  fair  estate  in  Wes- 
sex;  he  would  not  stay  in  the  rich  monastery  of 
Nutescelle,  even  though  they  had  chosen  him  as 
the  abbot;  he  had  refused  a  bishopric  at  the  court 
of  King  Karl.  Nothing  would  content  him  but  to 
go  out  into  the  wild  woods  and  preach  to  the 
heathen. 

Through  the  forests  of  Hesse  and  Thuringia, 
and  along  the  borders  of  Saxony,  he  had  wandered 
for  years,  with  a  handful  of  companions,  sleeping 
under  the  trees,  crossing  mountains  and  marshes, 
now  here,  now  there,  never  satisfied  with  ease  and 
comfort,  always  in  love  with  hardship  and  danger. 

128 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          129 

What  a  man  he  was!  Fair  and  slight,  but 
straight  as  a  spear  and  strong  as  an  oaken  staff. 
His  face  was  still  young;  the  smooth  skin  was 
bronzed  by  wind  and  sun.  His  gray  eyes,  clean 
and  kind,  flashed  like  fire  when  he  spoke  of  his 
adventures,  and  of  the  evil  deeds  of  the  false  priests 
with  whom  he  contended. 

He  was  now  clad  in  a  tunic  of  fur,  with  his  long 
black  robe  girt  high  above  his  waist,  so  that  it 
might  not  hinder  his  stride.  His  hunter's  boots 
were  crusted  with  snow.  Drops  of  ice  sparkled 
like  jewels  along  the  thongs  that  bound  his  legs. 
There  were  no  other  ornaments  of  his  dress  except 
the  bishop's  cross  hanging  on  his  breast,  and  the 
silver  clasp  that  fastened  his  cloak  about  his  neck. 
He  carried  a  strong,  tall  staff  in  his  hand,  fash 
ioned  at  the  top  into  the  form  of  a  cross. 

Close  beside  him,  keeping  step  like  a  familiar 
comrade,  was  young  Prince  Gregor.  Long  marches 
through  the  wilderness  had  stretched  his  legs  and 
broadened  his  back,  and  made  a  man  of  him  in 
stature  as  well  as  in  spirit.  His  jacket  and  cap 
were  of  wolf-skin,  and  on  his  shoulder  he  carried 
an  axe,  with  broad,  shining  blade.  He  was  a 
mighty  woodsman  now,  and  could  make  a  spray 
of  chips  fly  around  him  as  he  hewed  his  way 
through  the  trunk  of  a  pine-tree. 

Behind  these  leaders  followed  a  pair  of  team 
sters,  guiding  a  rude  sledge,  loaded  with  food  and 
the  equipage  of  the  camp,  and  drawn  by  two  big, 
shaggy  horses,  blowing  thick  clouds  of  steam  from 


130  Stories 

their  frosty  nostrils.  Tiny  icicles  hung  from  the 
hairs  on  their  lips.  Their  flanks  were  smoking. 
They  sank  above  the  fetlocks  at  every  step  in  the 
soft  snow. 

Last  of  all  came  the  rear  guard,  armed  with 
bows  and  javelins.  It  was  no  child's  play,  in 
those  days,  to  cross  Europe  afoot. 

The  weird  woodland,  sombre  and  illimitable, 
covered  hill  and  vale,  table-land  and  mountain- 
peak.  There  were  wide  moors  where  the  wolves 
hunted  in  packs  as  if  the  devil  drove  them,  and 
tangled  thickets  where  the  lynx  and  the  boar  made 
their  lairs.  Fierce  bears  lurked  among  the  rocky 
passes,  and  had  not  yet  learned  to  fear  the  face 
of  man.  The  gloomy  recesses  of  the  forest  gave 
shelter  to  inhabitants  who  were  still  more  cruel 
and  dangerous  than  beasts  of  prey — outlaws  and 
sturdy  robbers  and  mad  were-wolves  and  bands  of 
wandering  pillagers. 

The  travellers  were  surrounded  by  an  ocean  of 
trees,  so  vast,  so  full  of  endless  billows,  that  it 
seemed  to  be  pressing  on  every  side  to  overwhelm 
them.  Gnarled  oaks,  with  branches  twisted  and 
knotted  as  if  in  rage,  rose  in  groves  like  tidal 
waves.  Smooth  forests  of  beech-trees,  round  and 
gray,  swept  over  the  knolls  and  slopes  of  land  in 
a  mighty  ground-swell.  But  most  of  all,  the  mul 
titude  of  pines  and  firs,  innumerable  and  monoto 
nous,  with  straight,  stark  trunks,  and  branches 
woven  together  in  an  unbroken  flood  of  darkest 
green,  crowded  through  the  valleys  and  over  the 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          131 

hills,  rising  on  the  highest  ridges  into  ragged  crests, 
like  the  foaming  edge  of  breakers. 

Through  this  sea  of  shadows  ran  a  narrow 
stream  of  shining  whiteness — an  ancient  Roman 
road,  covered  with  snow.  It  was  as  if  some  great 
ship  had  ploughed  through  the  green  ocean  long 
ago,  and  left  behind  it  a  thick,  smooth  wake  of 
foam.  Along  this  open  track  the  travellers  held 
their  way — heavily,  for  the  drifts  were  deep;  war 
ily,  for  the  hard  winter  had  driven  many  packs  of 
wolves  down  from  the  moors. 

The  steps  of  the  pilgrims  were  noiseless ;  but  the 
sledges  creaked  over  the  dry  snow,  and  the  panting 
of  the  horses  throbbed  through  the  still  air.  The 
pale-blue  shadows  on  the  western  side  of  the  road 
grew  longer.  The  sun,  declining  through  its  shal 
low  arch,  dropped  behind  the  tree-tops.  Darkness 
followed  swiftly,  as  if  it  had  been  a  bird  of  prey 
waiting  for  this  sign  to  swoop  down  upon  the 
world. 

"Father,"  said  Gregor  to  the  leader,  "surely  this 
day's  march  is  done.  It  is  time  to  rest,  and  eat, 
and  sleep.  If  we  press  onward  now,  we  cannot 
see  our  steps." 

Winfried  laughed.  "Nay,  my  son  Gregor,"  said 
he,  "I  am  not  minded  to  spare  thy  legs  or  mine, 
until  we  come  farther  on  our  way,  and  do  what 
must  be  done  this  night.  Draw  thy  belt  tighter, 
my  son,  and  hew  me  out  this  tree  that  is  fallen 
across  the  road,  for  our  camp-ground  is  not  here." 

The  youth  obeyed;  two  of  the  foresters  sprang 


132  Stories 

to  help  him;  and  while  the  soft  fir-wood  yielded 
to  the  stroke  of  the  axes,  and  the  snow  flew  from 
the  bending  branches,  Winfried  turned  and  spoke 
to  his  followers  in  a  cheerful  voice,  that  refreshed 
them  like  wine. 

"Courage,  brothers,  and  forward  yet  a  little! 
The  moon  will  light  us  presently,  and  the  path  is 
plain.  Well  know  I  that  the  journey  is  weary; 
and  my  own  heart  wearies  also  for  the  home  in 
England,  where  those  I  love  are  keeping  feast  this 
Christmas-eve.  But  we  have  work  to  do  before  we 
feast  to-night.  For  this  is  the  Yule-tide,  and  the 
heathen  people  of  the  forest  are  gathered  at  the 
thunder-oak  of  Geismar  to  worship  their  god,  Thor. 
Strange  things  will  be  seen  there,  and  deeds  which 
make  the  soul  black.  But  we  are  sent  to  lighten 
their  darkness;  and  we  will  teach  our  kinsmen  to 
keep  a  Christmas  with  us  such  as  the  woodland 
has  never  known.  Forward,  then,  and  stiffen  up 
the  feeble  knees!" 

A  murmur  of  assent  came  from  the  men.  Even 
the  horses  seemed  to  take  fresh  heart.  They  flat 
tened  their  backs  to  draw  the  heavy  loads,  and 
blew  the  frost  from  their  nostrils  as  they  pushed 
ahead. 

The  night  grew  broader  and  less  oppressive.  A 
gate  of  brightness  was  opened  secretly  somewhere 
in  the  sky.  Higher  and  higher  swelled  the  clear 
moon-flood,  until  it  poured  over  the  eastern  wall 
of  forest  into  the  road.  A  drove  of  wolves  howled 
faintly  in  the  distance,  but  they  were  receding,  and 


The  fields  around  lay  bare  to  the  moon. 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          133 

the  sound  soon  died  away.  The  stars  sparkled 
merrily  through  the  stringent  air;  the  small,  round 
moon  shone  like  silver;  little  breaths  of  dreaming 
wind  wandered  across  the  pointed  fir-tops,  as  the 
pilgrims  toiled  bravely  onward,  following  their  clew 
of  light  through  a  labyrinth  of  darkness. 

After  a  while  the  road  began  to  open  out  a  little. 
There  were  spaces  of  meadow-land,  fringed  with 
alders,  behind  which  a  boisterous  river  ran  clash 
ing  through  spears  of  ice. 

Then  the  road  plunged  again  into  a  dense  thicket, 
traversed  it,  and  climbing  to  the  left,  emerged  sud 
denly  upon  a  glade,  round  and  level  except  at  the 
northern  side,  where  a  hillock  was  crowned  with  a 
huge  oak-tree.  It  towered  above  the  heath,  a  giant 
with  contorted  arms,  beckoning  to  the  host  of  lesser 
trees.  "Here,"  cried  Winfried,  as  his  eyes  flashed 
and  his  hand  lifted  his  heavy  staff,  "here  is  the 
Thunder-oak;  and  here  the  cross  of  Christ  shall 
break  the  hammer  of  the  false  god  Thor." 


II 


Withered  leaves  still  clung  to  the  branches  of  the 
oak :  torn  and  faded  banners  of  the  departed  sum 
mer.  The  bright  crimson  of  autumn  had  long  since 
disappeared,  bleached  away  by  the  storms  and  the 
cold.  But  to-night  these  tattered  remnants  of  glory 
were  red  again:  ancient  blood-stains  against  the 


1 34  Stories 

dark-blue  sky.  For  an  immense  fire  had  been  kin 
dled  in  front  of  the  tree.  Tongues  of  ruddy  flame, 
fountains  of  ruby  sparks,  ascended  through  the 
spreading  limbs  and  flung  a  fierce  illumination  up 
ward  and  around.  The  pale,  pure  moonlight  that 
bathed  the  surrounding  forests  was  quenched  and 
eclipsed  here.  Not  a  beam  of  it  sifted  through  the 
branches  of  the  oak.  It  stood  like  a  pillar  of  cloud 
between  the  still  light  of  heaven  and  the  crackling, 
flashing  fire  of  earth. 

But  the  fire  itself  was  invisible  to  Winfried  and 
his  companions.  A  great  throng  of  people  were 
gathered  around  it  in  a  half-circle,  their  backs  to 
the  open  glade,  their  faces  toward  the  oak.  Seen 
against  that  glowing  background,  it  was  but  the 
silhouette  of  a  crowd,  vague,  black,  formless,  mys 
terious. 

The  travellers  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  edge 
of  the  thicket,  and  took  counsel  together. 

"It  is  the  assembly  of  the  tribe,"  said  one  of  the 
foresters,  "the  great  night  of  the  council.  I  heard 
of  it  three  days  ago,  as  we  passed  through  one  of 
the  villages.  All  who  swear  by  the  old  gods  have 
been  summoned.  They  will  sacrifice  a  steed  to  the 
god  of  war,  and  drink  blood,  and  eat  horse-flesh 
to  make  them  strong.  It  will  be  at  the  peril  of  our 
lives  if  we  approach  them.  At  least  we  must  hide 
the  cross,  if  we  would  escape  death." 

"Hide  me  no  cross,"  cried  Winfried,  lifting  his 
staff,  "for  I  have  come  to  show  it,  and  to  make 
these  blind  folk  see  its  power.  There  is  more  to 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          135 

be  done  here  to-night  than  the  slaying  of  a  steed, 
and  a  greater  evil  to  be  stayed  than  the  shameful 
eating  of  meat  sacrificed  to  idols.  I  have  seen  it 
in  a  dream.  Here  the  cross  must  stand  and  be 
our  rede." 

At  his  command  the  sledge  was  left  in  the  bor 
der  of  the  wood,  with  two  of  the  men  to  guard  it, 
and  the  rest  of  the  company  moved  forward  across 
the  open  ground.  They  approached  unnoticed,  for 
all  the  multitude  were  looking  intently  toward  the 
fire  at  the  foot  of  the  oak. 

Then  Winfried's  voice  rang  out,  "Hail,  ye  sons 
of  the  forest!  A  stranger  claims  the  warmth  of 
your  fire  in  the  winter  night." 

Swiftly,  and  as  with  a  single  motion,  a  thousand 
eyes  were  bent  upon  the  speaker.  The  semicircle 
opened  silently  in  the  middle;  Winfried  entered 
with  his  followers;  it  closed  again  behind  them. 

Then,  as  they  looked  round  the  curving  ranks, 
they  saw  that  the  hue  of  the  assemblage  was  not 
black,  but  white — dazzling,  radiant,  solemn.  White, 
the  robes  of  the  women  clustered  together  at  the 
points  of  the  wide  crescent;  white,  the  glittering 
byrnies  of  the  warriors  standing  in  close  ranks ; 
white,  the  fur  mantles  of  the  aged  men  who  held 
the  central  place  in  the  circle ;  white,  with  the 
shimmer  of  silver  ornaments  and  the  purity  of 
lamb's-wool,  the  raiment  of  a  little  group  of  chil 
dren  who  stood  close  by  the  fire ;  white,  with  awe 
and  fear,  the  faces  of  all  who  looked  at  them ;  and 
over  all  the  flickering,  dancing  radiance  of  the 


136  Stories 

flames  played  and  glimmered  like  a  faint,  vanishing 
tinge  of  blood  on  snow. 

The  only  figure  untouched  by  the  glow  was  the 
old  priest,  Hunrad,  with  his  long,  spectral  robe, 
flowing  hair  and  beard,  and  dead-pale  face,  who 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  advanced  slowly 
to  meet  the  strangers. 

"Who  are  you?  Whence  come  you,  and  what 
seek  you  here?" 

"Your  kinsman  am  I,  of  the  German  brother 
hood,"  answered  Winfried,  "and  from  England, 
beyond  the  sea,  have  I  come  to  bring  you  a  greet 
ing  from  that  land,  and  a  message  from  the  All- 
Father,  whose  servant  I  am." 

"Welcome,  then,"  said  Hunrad,  "welcome,  kins 
man,  and  be  silent ;  for  what  passes  here  is  too  high 
to  wait,  and  must  be  done  before  the  moon  crosses 
the  middle  heaven,  unless,  indeed,  thou  hast  some 
sign  or  token  from  the  gods.  Canst  thou  work 
miracles  ?" 

The  question  came  sharply,  as  if  a  sudden  gleam 
of  hope  had  flashed  through  the  tangle  of  the  old 
priest's  mind.  But  Winfried's  voice  sank  lower  and 
a  cloud  of  disappointment  passed  over  his  face  as 
he  replied:  "Nay,  miracles  have  I  never  wrought, 
though  I  have  heard  of  many;  but  the  All-Father 
has  given  no  power  to  my  hands  save  such  as  be 
longs  to  common  man." 

"Stand  still,  then,  thou  common  man,"  said 
Hunrad  scornfully,  "and  behold  what  the  gods 
have  called  us  hither  to  do.  This  night  is  the 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          137 

death-night  of  the  sun-god,  Baldur  the  Beautiful, 
beloved  of  gods  and  men.  This  night  is  the  hour 
of  darkness  and  the  power  of  winter,  of  sacrifice 
and  mighty  fear.  This  night  the  great  Thor,  the 
god  of  thunder  and  war,  to  whom  this  oak  is  sacred, 
is  grieved  for  the  death  of  Baldur,  and  angry  with 
this  people  because  they  have  forsaken  his  worship. 
Long  is  it  since  an  offering  has  been  laid  upon  his 
altar,  long  since  the  roots  of  his  holy  tree  have  been 
fed  with  blood.  Therefore  its  leaves  have  withered 
before  the  time,  and  its  boughs  are  heavy  with 
death.  Therefore  the  Slavs  and  the  Wends  have 
beaten  us  in  battle.  Therefore  the  harvests  have 
failed,  and  the  wolf-hordes  have  ravaged  the  folds, 
and  the  strength  has  departed  from  the  bow,  and 
the  wood  of  the  spear  has  broken,  and  the  wild 
boar  has  slain  the  huntsman.  Therefore  the  plague 
has  fallen  on  our  dwellings,  and  the  dead  are  more 
than  the  living  in  all  our  villages.  Answer  me,  ye 
people,  are  not  these  things  true?" 

A  hoarse  sound  of  approval  ran  through  the 
circle.  A  chant,  in  which  the  voices  of  the  men 
and  women  blended,  like  the  shrill  wind  in  the  pine- 
trees  above  the  rumbling  thunder  of  a  waterfall, 
rose  and  fell  in  rude  cadences. 

O  Thor,  the  Thunderer, 
Mighty  and  merciless, 
Spare  us  from  smiting! 
Heave  not  thy  hammer, 
Angry,  against  us; 


138  Stories 

Plague  not  thy  people. 
Take  from  our  treasure 
Richest  of  ransom. 
Silver  we  send  thee, 
Jewels  and  javelins, 
Goodliest  garments, 
All  our  possessions, 
Priceless,  we  proffer. 
Sheep  will  we  slaughter, 
Steeds  will  we  sacrifice; 
Bright  blood  shall  bathe  thee, 
O  tree  of  Thunder, 
Life -floods  shall  lave  thee, 
Strong  wood  of  wonder. 
Mighty,  have  mercy, 
Smite  us  no  more, 
Spare  us  and  save  us, 
Spare  us,  Thor!    Thor! 


With  two  great  shouts  the  song  ended,  and  a 
stillness  followed  so  intense  that  the  crackling  of 
the  fire  was  heard  distinctly.  The  old  priest  stood 
silent  for  a  moment.  His  shaggy  brows  swept 
down  over  his  eyes  like  ashes  quenching  flame. 
Then  he  lifted  his  face  and  spoke. 

"None  of  these  things  will  please  the  god.  More 
costly  is  the  offering  that  shall  cleanse  your  sin, 
more  precious  the  crimson  dew  that  shall  send  new 
life  into  this  holy  tree  of  blood.  Thor  claims  your 
dearest  and  your  noblest  gift." 

Hunrad  moved  nearer  to  the  group  of  children 
who  stood  watching  the  fire  and  the  swarms  of 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          139 

spark-serpents  darting  upward.  They  had  heeded 
none  of  the  priest's  words,  and  did  not  notice  now 
that  he  approached  them,  so  eager  were  they  to 
see  which  fiery  snake  would  go  highest  among  the 
oak  branches.  Foremost  among  them,  and  most 
intent  on  the  pretty  game,  was  a  boy  like  a  sun 
beam,  slender  and  quick,  with  blithe  brown  eyes 
and  laughing  lips.  The  priest's  hand  was  laid 
upon  his  shoulder.  The  boy  turned  and  looked  up 
in  his  face. 

"Here,"  said  the  old  man,  with  his  voice  vibrat 
ing  as  when  a  thick  rope  is  strained  by  a  ship 
swinging  from  her  moorings,  "here  is  the  chosen 
one,  the  eldest  son  of  the  chief,  the  darling  of  the 
people.  Hearken,  Bernhard,  wilt  thou  go  to  Val 
halla,  where  the  heroes  dwell  with  the  gods,  to  bear 
a  message  to  Thor?" 

The  boy  answered,  swift  and  clear: 

"Yes,  priest,  I  will  go  if  my  father  bids  me.  Is 
it  far  away?  Shall  I  run  quickly?  Must  I  take 
my  bow  and  arrows  for  the  wolves?" 

The  boy's  father,  the  chieftain  Gundhar,  stand 
ing  among  his  bearded  warriors,  drew  his  breath 
deep,  and  leaned  so  heavily  on  the  handle  of  his 
spear  that  the  wood  cracked.  And  his  wife,  Irma, 
bending  forward  from  the  ranks  of  women,  pushed 
the  golden  hair  from  her  forehead  with  one  hand. 
The  other  dragged  at  the  silver  chain  about  her 
neck  until  the  rough  links  pierced  her  flesh,  and 
the  red  drops  fell  unheeded  on  her  breast. 

A  sigh  passed  through  the  crowd,  like  the  mur- 


140  Stories 

mur  of  the  forest  before  the  storm  breaks.  Yet 
no  one  spoke  save  Hunrad: 

"Yes,  my  prince,  both  bow  and  spear  shalt  thou 
have,  for  the  way  is  long,  and  thou  art  a  brave 
huntsman.  But  in  darkness  thou  must  journey  for 
a  little  space,  and  with  eyes  blindfolded.  Fearest 
thou?" 

"Naught  fear  I,"  said  the  boy,  "neither  dark 
ness,  nor  the  great  bear,  nor  the  were-wolf.  For 
I  am  Gundhar's  son,  and  the  defender  of  my  folk." 

Then  the  priest  led  the  child  in  his  raiment  of 
lamb's-wool  to  a  broad  stone  in  front  of  the  fire. 
He  gave  him  his  little  bow  tipped  with  silver,  and 
his  spear  with  shining  head  of  steel.  He  bound 
the  child's  eyes  with  a  white  cloth,  and  bade  him 
kneel  beside  the  stone  with  his  face  to  the  east. 
Unconsciously  the  wide  arc  of  spectators  drew  in 
ward  toward  the  centre.  Winfried  moved  noise 
lessly  until  he  stood  close  behind  the  priest. 

The  old  man  stooped  to  lift  a  black  hammer  of 
stone  from  the  ground — the  sacred  hammer  of  the 
god  Thor.  Summoning  all  the  strength  of  his 
withered  arms,  he  swung  it  high  in  the  air.  It 
poised  for  an  instant  above  the  child's  fair  head — 
then  turned  to  fall. 

One  keen  cry  shrilled  out  from  where  the  women 
stood:  "Me!  take  me!  not  Bernhard!" 

The  flight  of  the  mother  toward  her  child  was 
swift  as  the  falcon's  swoop.  But  swifter  still  was 
the  hand  of  the  deliverer. 

Winfried's  heavy  staff  thrust  mightily  against  the 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          141 

hammer's  handle  as  it  fell.  Sideways  it  glanced 
from  the  old  man's  grasp,  and  the  black  stone, 
striking  on  the  altar's  edge,  split  in  twain.  A 
shout  of  awe  and  joy  rolled  along  the  living  cir 
cle.  The  branches  of  the  oak  shivered.  The  flames 
leaped  higher.  As  the  shout  died  away  the  people 
saw  the  lady  Irma,  with  her  arms  clasped  round 
her  child,  and  above  them,  on  the  altar-stone,  Win- 
fried,  his  face  shining  like  the  face  of  an  angel. 


Ill 

A  swift  mountain-flood  rolling  down  its  channel ; 
a  huge  rock  tumbling  from  the  hill-side  and  fall 
ing  in  mid-stream:  the  baffled  waters  broken  and 
confused,  pausing  in  their  flow,  dash  high  against 
the  rock,  foaming  and  murmuring,  with  divided 
impulse,  uncertain  whether  to  turn  to  the  right  or 
the  left. 

Even  so  Winfried's  bold  deed  fell  into  the  midst 
of  the  thoughts  and  passions  of  the  council.  They 
were  at  a  standstill.  Anger  and  wonder,  reverence 
and  joy  and  confusion  surged  through  the  crowd. 
They  knew  not  which  way  to  move:  to  resent  the 
intrusion  of  the  stranger  as  an  insult  to  their  gods, 
or  to  welcome  him  as  the  rescuer  of  their  prince. 

The  old  priest  crouched  by  the  altar,  silent.  Con 
flicting  counsels  troubled  the  air.  Let  the  sacrifice 
go  forward ;  the  gods  must  be  appeased.  Nay,  the 
boy  must  not  die;  bring  the  chieftain's  best  horse 


142  Stories 

and  slay  it  in  his  stead ;  it  will  be  enough ;  the 
holy  tree  loves  the  blood  of  horses.  Not  so,  there 
is  a  better  counsel  yet ;  seize  the  stranger  whom  the 
gods  have  led  hither  as  a  victim  and  make  his  life 
pay  the  forfeit  of  his  daring. 

The  withered  leaves  on  the  oak  rustled  and  whis 
pered  overhead.  The  fire  flared  and  sank  again. 
The  angry  voices  clashed  against  each  other  and 
fell  like  opposing  waves.  Then  the  chieftain  Gund- 
har  struck  the  earth  with  his  spear  and  gave  his 
decision. 

"All  have  spoken,  but  none  are  agreed.  There 
is  no  voice  of  the  council.  Keep  silence  now,  and 
let  the  stranger  speak.  His  words  shall  give  us 
judgment,  whether  he  is  to  live  or  to  die." 

Winfried  lifted  himself  high  upon  the  altar,  drew 
a  roll  of  parchment  from  his  bosom,  and  began  to 
read. 

"A  letter  from  the  great  Bishop  of  Rome,  who 
sits  on  a  golden  throne,  to  the  people  of  the  forest, 
Hessians  and  Thuringians,  Franks  and  Saxons." 

A  murmur  of  awe  ran  through  the  crowd. 

Winfried  went  on  to  read  the  letter,  translating 
it  into  the  speech  of  the  people. 

"We  have  sent  unto  you  our  Brother  Boniface, 
and  appointed  him  your  bishop,  that  he  may  teach 
you  the  only  true  faith,  and  baptize  you,  and  lead 
you  back  from  the  ways  of  error  to  the  path  of 
salvation.  Hearken  to  him  in  all  things  like  a 
father.  Bow  your  hearts  to  his  teaching.  He 
comes  not  for  earthly  gain,  but  for  the  gain  of  your 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          143 

souls.  Depart  from  evil  works.  Worship  not  the 
false  gods,  for  they  are  devils.  Offer  no  more 
bloody  sacrifices,  nor  eat  the  flesh  of  horses,  but  do 
as  our  Brother  Boniface  commands  you.  Build  a 
house  for  him  that  he  may  dwell  among  you,  and 
a  church  where  you  may  offer  your  prayers  to  the 
only  living  God,  the  Almighty  King  of  Heaven." 

It  was  a  splendid  message:  proud,  strong,  peace 
ful,  loving.  The  dignity  of  the  words  imposed 
mightily  upon  the  hearts  of  the  people.  They  were 
quieted  as  men  who  have  listened  to  a  lofty  strain 
of  music. 

"Tell  us,  then,"  said  Gundhar,  "what  is  the  word 
that  thou  bringest  to  us  from  the  Almighty  ?  What 
is  thy  counsel  for  the  tribes  of  the  woodland  on 
this  night  of  sacrifice?" 

"This  is  the  word,  and  this  is  the  counsel,"  an 
swered  Winfried.  "Not  a  drop  of  blood  shall  fall 
to-night,  save  that  which  pity  has  drawn  from  the 
breast  of  your  princess,  in  love  for  her  child.  Not 
a  life  shall  be  blotted  out  in  the  darkness  to-night; 
but  the  great  shadow  of  the  tree  which  hides  you 
from  the  light  of  heaven  shall  be  swept  away.  For 
this  is  the  birthnight  of  the  white  Christ,  son  of 
the  All-Father,  and  Saviour  of  mankind.  Since  He 
has  come  to  earth  the  bloody  sacrifice  must  cease. 
The  dark  Thor,  on  whom  you  vainly  call,  is  dead. 
His  power  in  the  world  is  broken.  Will  you  serve 
a  helpless  god?  See,  my  brothers,  you  call  this 
tree  his  oak.  Does  he  dwell  here?  Does  he  pro 
tect  it?" 


144  Stories 

A  troubled  voice  of  assent  rose  from  the  throng. 
The  people  stirred  uneasily.  Women  covered  their 
eyes.  Hunrad  lifted  his  head  and  muttered  hoarse 
ly,  "Thor!  take  vengeance!  Thor!" 

Winfried  beckoned  to  Gregor.  "Bring  the  axes, 
thine  and  one  for  me.  Now,  young  woodsman, 
show  thy  craft!  The  king-tree  of  the  forest  must 
fall,  and  swiftly,  or  all  is  lost!" 

The  two  men  took  their  places  facing  each  other, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  oak.  Their  cloaks  were 
flung  aside,  their  heads  bare.  Carefully  they  felt 
the  ground  with  their  feet,  seeking  a  firm  grip  of 
the  earth.  Firmly  they  grasped  the  axe-helves  and 
swung  the  shining  blades. 

"Tree-god!"  cried  Winfried,  "art  thou  angry? 
Thus  we  smite  thee!" 

"Tree-god!"  answered  Gregor,  "art  thou  mighty? 
Thus  we  fight  thee!" 

Clang!  clang!  the  alternate  strokes  beat  time 
upon  the  hard,  ringing  wood.  The  axe-heads  glit 
tered  in  their  rhythmic  flight,  like  fierce  eagles  cir 
cling  about  their  quarry. 

The  broad  flakes  of  wood  flew  from  the  deepen 
ing  gashes  in  the  sides  of  the  oak.  The  huge  trunk 
quivered.  There  was  a  shuddering  in  the  branches. 
Then  the  great  wonder  of  Winfried's  life  came  to 
pass. 

Out  of  the  stillness  of  the  winter  night  a  mighty 
rushing  noise  sounded  overhead. 

Was  it  the  ancient  gods  on  their  white  battle- 
steeds,  with  their  black  hounds  of  wrath  and  their 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          145 

arrows  of  lightning,  sweeping  through  the  air  to 
destroy  their  foes? 

A  strong,  whirling  wind  passed  over  the  tree- 
tops.  It  gripped  the  oak  by  its  branches  and  tore 
it  from  the  roots.  Backward  it  fell,  like  a  ruined 
tower,  groaning  and  crashing  as  it  split  asunder  in 
four  great  pieces. 

Winfried  let  his  axe  drop,  and  bowed  his  head 
for  a  moment  in  the  presence  of  almighty  .power. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  people:  "Here  is  the  tim 
ber,"  he  cried,  "already  felled  and  split  for  your 
new  building.  On  this  spot  shall  rise  a  chapel  to 
the  true  God  and  his  servant  St.  Peter. 

"And  here,"  said  he,  as  his  eyes  fell  on  a  young 
fir-tree,  standing  straight  and  green,  with  its  top 
pointing  toward  the  stars,  amid  the  divided  ruins 
of  the  fallen  oak,  "here  is  the  living  tree,  with  no 
stain  of  blood  upon  it,  that  shall  be  the  sign  of 
your  new  worship.  See  how  it  points  to  the  sky. 
Call  it  the  tree  of  the  Christ-child.  Take  .it  up 
and  carry  it  to  the  chieftain's  hall.  You  shall  go 
no  more  into  the  shadows  of  the  forest  to  keep  your 
feasts  with  secret  rites  of  shame.  You  shall  keep 
them  at  home,  with  laughter  and  songs  and  rites 
of  love.  The  thunder-oak  has  fallen,  and  I  think 
the  day  is  coming  when  there  shall  not  be  a  home 
in  all  Germany  where  the  children  are  not  gath 
ered  around  the  green  fir-tree  to  rejoice  in  the 
birthnight  of  Christ." 

So  they  took  the  little  fir  from  its  place,  and 
carried  it  in  joyous  procession  to  the  edge  of  the 


146  Stories 

glade,  and  laid  it  on  the  sledge.  The  horses  tossed 
their  heads  and  drew  their  load  bravely,  as  if  the 
new  burden  had  made  it  lighter. 

When  they  came  to  the  house  of  Gundhar,  he 
bade  them  throw  open  the  doors  of  the  hall  and 
set  the  tree  in  the  midst  of  it.  They  kindled  lights 
among  the  branches  until  it  seemed  to  be  tangled 
full  of  fire-flies.  The  children  encircled  it,  wonder 
ing,  and  the  sweet  odor  of  the  balsam  filled  the 
house. 

Then  Winfried  stood  beside  the  chair  of  Gund 
har,  on  the  dais  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  and  told 
the  story  of  Bethlehem ;  of  the  babe  in  the  manger, 
of  the  shepherds  on  the  hills,  of  the  host  of  angels 
and  their  midnight  song.  All  the  people  listened, 
charmed  into  stillness. 

But  the  boy  Bernhard,  on  Irma's  knee,  folded 
in  her  soft  arms,  grew  restless  as  the  story  length 
ened,  and  began  to  prattle  softly  at  his  mother's 
ear. 

"Mother,"  whispered  the  child,  "why  did  you  cry 
out  so  loud  when  the  priest  was  going  to  send  me 
to  Valhalla?" 

"Oh,  hush,  my  child,"  answered  the  mother,  and 
pressed  him  closer  to  her  side. 

"Mother,"  whispered  the  boy  again,  laying  his 
finger  on  the  stains  upon  her  breast,  "see,  your 
dress  is  red!  What  are  these  stains?  Did  some 
one  hurt  you?" 

The  mother  closed  his  mouth  with  a  kiss.  "Dear, 
be  still,  and  listen!" 


The  First  Christmas-Tree          147 

The  boy  obeyed.  His  eyes  were  heavy  with 
sleep.  But  he  heard  the  last  words  of  Winfried 
as  he  spoke  of  the  angelic  messengers,  flying  over 
the  hills  of  Judea  and  singing  as  they  flew.  The 
child  wondered  and  dreamed  and  listened.  Sud 
denly  his  face  grew  bright.  He  put  his  lips  close 
to  Irma's  cheek  again. 

"Oh,  mother!"  he  whispered  very  low,  "do  not 
speak.  Do  you  hear  them?  Those  angels  have 
come  back  again.  They  are  singing  now  behind 
the  tree." 

And  some  say  that  it  was  true;  but  some  say 
that  it  was  the  pilgrims  whom  the  child  heard, 
singing  their  Christmas  carol. 


PART   IV 
BITS  OF  BLUE-SKY  PHILOSOPHY 


THE  ARROW 

LIFE  is  an  arrow — therefore  you  must  know 
What  mark  to  aim  at,  how  to  use  the  bow — • 
Then  draw  it  to  the  head,  and  let  it  go ! 


FOUR  THINGS 

FOUR  things  a  man  must  learn  to  do 
If  he  would  make  his  record  true: 
To  think  without  confusion  clearly; 
To  love  his  fellow-men  sincerely; 
To  act  from  honest  motives  purely ; 
To  trust  in  God  and  Heaven  securely. 


LIFE 

LET  me  but  live  my  life  from  year  to  year, 
With  forward  face  and  unreluctant  soul; 
Not  hurrying  to,  nor  turning  from,  the  goal; 

Not  mourning  for  the  things  that  disappear 

In  the  dim  past,  nor  holding  back  in  fear 

From  what  the  future  veils ;  but  with  a  whole 
And  happy  heart,  that  pays  its  toll 

To  Youth  and  Age,  and  travels  on  with  cheer. 


152        Bits  of  Blue-Sky  Philosophy 

So  let  the  way  wind  up  the  hill  or  down, 

O'er  rough  or  smooth,  the  journey  will  be  joy 
Still  seeking  what  I  sought  when  but  a  boy, 
New  friendship,  high  adventure,  and  a  crown, 
My  heart  will  keep  the  courage  of  the  quest, 
And  hope  the  road's  last  turn  will  be  the  best. 


WORK 

LET  me  but  do  my  work  from  day  to  day, 
In  field  or  forest,  at  the  desk  or  loom, 
In  roaring  market-place  or  tranquil  room; 

Let  me  but  find  it  in  my  heart  to  say, 

When  vagrant  wishes  beckon  me  astray, 

"This  is  my  work ;  my  blessing,  not  my  doom ; 
Of  all  who  live,  I  am  the  one  by  whom 

This  work  can  best  be  done  in  the  right  way." 

Then  shall  I  see  it  not  too  great,  nor  small, 
To  suit  my  spirit  and  to  prove  my  powers ; 
Then  shall  I  cheerful  greet  the  laboring  hours, 
And  cheerful  turn,  when  the  long  shadows  fall 
At  eventide,  to  play  and  love  and  rest, 
Because  I  know  for  me  my  work  is  best. 


The  Gentle  Life  153 


THE   GENTLE   LIFE1 

"I  WILL  give  you  four  choice  rules  for  the  attain 
ment  of  that  unhastened  quietude  of  mind  whereof 
we  did  lately  discourse. 

"First. — You  shall  learn  to  desire  nothing  in  the 
world  so  much  but  that  you  can  be  happy  without  it. 

"Second. — You  shall  seek  that  which  you  desire 
only  by  such  means  as  are  fair  and  lawful,  and  this 
will  leave  you  without  bitterness  toward  men  or 
shame  before  God. 

"Third. — You  shall  take  pleasure  in  the  time 
while  you  are  seeking,  even  though  you  obtain  not 
immediately  that  which  you  seek;  for  the  purpose 
of  a  journey  is  not  only  to  arrive  at  the  goal,  but 
also  to  find  enjoyment  by  the  way. 

"Fourth. — When  you  attain  that  which  you  have 
desired,  you  shall  think  more  of  the  kindness  of 
your  fortune  than  of  the  greatness  of  your  skill. 
This  will  make  you  grateful,  and  ready  to  share 
with  others  that  which  Providence  hath  bestowed 
upon  you ;  and  truly  this  is  both  reasonable  and 
profitable,  for  it  is  but  little  that  any  of  us  would 
catch  in  this  world  were  not  our  luck  better  than 
our  deserts." 

****** 

"Trust  me,  Scholar,  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  to 
spend  little  of  your  time  upon  the  things  that  vex 

1  The  author  puts  these  words  into  the  mouth  of  Izaak  Walton, 
who  appears  to  him  one  day  in  his  dreams. 


154        £tts  of  Blue- Sky  Philosophy 

and  anger  you,  and  much  of  your  time  upon  the 
things  that  bring  you  quietness  and  confidence  and 
good  cheer.  A  friend  made  is  better  than  an  enemy 
punished.  There  is  more  of  God  in  the  peaceable 
beauty  of  this  little  wood-violet  than  in  all  the  an 
gry  disputations  of  the  sects.  We  are  nearer  heaven 
when  we  listen  to  the  birds  than  when  we  quarrel 
with  our  fellow-men.  I  am  sure  that  none  can  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  Christ,  His  evangel,  save  those  who 
willingly  follow  His  invitation  when  He  says,  'Come 
ye  yourselves  apart  into  a  lonely  place,  and  rest  a 
while.'  For  since  His  blessed  kingdom  was  first 
established  in  the  green  fields,  by  the  lakeside,  with 
humble  fishermen  for  its  subjects,  the  easiest  way 
into  it  hath  ever  been  through  the  wicket-gate  of  a 
lowly  and  grateful  fellowship  with  Nature.  He  that 
feels  not  the  beauty  and  blessedness  and  peace  of  the 
woods  and  meadows  that  God  hath  bedecked  with 
flowers  for  him  even  while  he  is  yet  a  sinner,  how 
shall  hj  learn  to  enjoy  the  unfading  bloom  of  the 
celestial  country  if  he  ever  become  a  saint? 

"No,  no,  sir,  he  that  departeth  out  of  this  world 
without  perceiving  that  it  is  fair  and  full  of  inno 
cent  sweetness  hata  done  little  honor  to  the  every 
day  miracles  of  divine  beneficence ;  and  though  by 
mercy  he  may  obtain  an  entrance  to  heaven,  it  will 
be  a  strange  place  to  him;  and  though  he  have 
studied  all  that  is  written  in  men's  books  of  divinity, 
yet  because  he  hath  left  the  book  of  Nature  un 
turned,  he  will  have  much  to  learn  and  much  to  for 
get.  Do  you  think  that  to  be  blind  to  the  beauties 


The  Gentle  Life  155 

of  earth  prepareth  the  heart  to  behold  the  glories  of 
heaven?  Nay,  Scholar,  I  know  that  you  are  not 
of  that  opinion.  But  I  can  tell  you  another  thing 
which  perhaps  you  knew  not.  The  heart  that  is 
blest  with  the  glories  of  heaven  ceaseth  not  to  re 
member  and  to  love  the  beauties  of  this  world.  And 
of  this  love  I  am  certain,  because  I  feel  it,  and  glad 
because  it  is  a  great  blessing. 

"There  are  two  sorts  of  seeds  sown  in  our  remem 
brance  by  what  we  call  the  hand  of  fortune,  the 
fruits  of  which  do  not  wither,  but  grow  sweeter  for 
ever  and  ever.  The  first  is  the  seed  of  innocent 
pleasures,  received  in  gratitude  and  enjoyed  with 
good  companions,  of  which  pleasures  we  never  grow 
weary  of  thinking,  because  they  have  enriched  our 
hearts.  The  second  is  the  seed  of  pure  and  gentle 
sorrows,  borne  in  submission  and  with  faithful  love, 
and  these  also  we  never  forget,  but  we  come  to  cher 
ish  them  with  gladness  instead  of  grief,  because  we 
see  them  changed  into  everlasting  joys.  And  how 
this  may  be  I  cannot  tell  you  now,  for  you  would 
not  understand  me.  But  that  it  is  so,  believe  me: 
for  if  you  believe,  you  shall  one  day  see  it  yourself." 


STORY    OF    THE    AUTHOR'S    LIFE 
FROM  A  CHILD'S   POINT  OF  VIEW 


STORY   OF  THE  AUTHOR'S   LIFE   FROM 
A  CHILD'S  POINT  OF  VIEW 

MY  father  was  born  in  Germantown,  Pennsyl 
vania,  on  November  10,  1852;  but  when  he  was 
very  young  the  family  moved  to  Brooklyn,  and  it 
was  there  that  most  of  his  boyhood  was  spent. 
From  the  first  his  relationship  with  his  father  was 
a  particularly  beautiful  one,  for  besides  the  natural 
trust  and  reverence,  there  grew  up  the  closest  kind 
of  a  friendship.  It  was  as  comrades  that  they  went 
off  for  their  day's  holiday,  escaping  from  the  city 
and  its  flag  pavements  and  brownstone  fronts  and 
getting  out  into  the  fresh  country  air,  to  walk 
through  the  woods  and  watch  the  leaves  turn  red 
and  gold  and  brown  and  drop  to  the  ground,  or  to 
skate  in  the  winter,  or  to  listen  for  the  song  of  the 
first  returning  bluebird  in  the  spring.  It  was  under 
the  wise  and  tender  guidance  of  his  father  that  the 
boy's  instinctive  love  of  nature  grew  and  developed. 
The  stages  of  this  growth  are  seen  in  the  chapter 
entitled  "A  Boy  and  a  Rod." 

Boys  went  to  college  earlier  in  those  days  than 
they  do  now,  and  my  father,  who  had  prepared  at 
the  Brooklyn  Polytechnic  Institute,  was  ready  to 
enter  Princeton  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  Before  he 
went  to  college  he  had  tried  his  hand  at  writing  a 
159 


160        Story  of  the  Author's  Life 

little.  During  his  college  course  he  became  deeply 
interested  in  it,  and  took  the  Clio  Hall  prizes  for 
essays  and  speeches,  besides  writing  along  other 
lines.  Thus  his  enthusiasm  for  literature  was  in 
creasing  all  the  time,  and  from  the  first  the  idea  of 
writing  was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  He  was  Junior 
orator  in  1872,  and  at  graduation  in  1873  his  class 
mates  elected  him  for  a  class-day  speaker.  He  also 
received  honors  from  the  faculty  in  belles-lettres 
and  the  English  Salutatory  in  recognition  of  his 
general  scholarship,  besides  the  class  of  1859  Prize 
in  English  Literature.  Through  all  his  course  he 
was  a  leading  man  in  the  classroom,  gymnasium, 
and  all  class  and  college  affairs. 

After  teaching  for  a  year  in  Brooklyn  he  entered 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary,  and  graduated  in 
1877.  He  spent  the  following  year  studying  at  the 
University  of  Berlin  and  in  travel,  and  after  being 
ordained  in  1879  he  was  called  to  the  United  Con 
gregational  Church  at  Newport,  R.  I.  In  1881  he 
married  my  mother,  and  a  few  years  later  was  called 
to  the  Brick  Presbyterian  Church  in  New  York, 
where  he  gave  seventeen  years  of  the  hardest  and 
most  untiring  labor  to  a  work  which  did  not  end 
with  his  own  congregation  or  the  city  itself,  but 
touched  thousands  of  people  all  over  the  country. 
But  these  years  of  his  life  were  only  a  step  aside  to 
give  a  helping  hand  to  two  churches  which  were 
fast  running  down,  and  through  it  all  he  felt  that 
his  real  work  was  literature,  and  it  was  in  that  field 
that  his  best  work  could  be  done,  though  the  rush 


From  a  Child's  Point  of  View     161 

of  city  life  at  that  time  gave  him  very  little  chance 
to  do  it. 

So  we  were  city  children,  but  the  woods  were 
our  inheritance  and  fishing  became  our  favorite 
sport.  Our  earliest  recollections  of  my  father  are 
in  connection  with  fishing  or  camping  expeditions. 
For  when  work  pressed  too  heavily  and  his  health 
showed  signs  of  too  much  wear  and  tear,  he  would 
take  a  few  days  in  the  spring  and  spend  them  catch 
ing  the  first  trout  of  the  season  out  of  the  Swift- 
water,  a  little  river  in  the  Alleghany  Mountains  in 
Pennsylvania.  When  he  was  away  we  always 
thought  that  he  had  "gone  fishing,"  and  our  earliest 
ambition  was  to  go  with  him.  Somehow,  the  fact 
that  I  was  a  girl  never  seemed  to  make  any  differ 
ence  in  my  castles  in  the  air,  and  all  of  us,  boys  and 
girls  alike,  grew  up  with  the  idea  that  to  be  like 
father  was  the  highest  possible  attainment. 

As  soon  as  we  were  able  to  read  we  read  his 
stories  of  camping  that  came  out  in  the  magazines. 
The  article  on  "  Ampersand"  was  the  first  and  ap 
peared  in  Harper's  Magazine  in  1885.  But  we  were 
too  young  then,  of  course,  to  appreciate  them,  and 
I  am  afraid  we  preferred  the  story  of  "The  Little 
Girl  in  the  Well"  and  "Tommy  Lizard  and  Frankie 
Frog,"  and  other  wonderful  tales  that  he  invented 
and  told  us  between  supper  and  bedtime. 

Every  Sunday  we  sat  all  in  a  row  up  in  the  sec 
ond  pew  in  the  big  church  and  heard  him  preach. 
Then  in  the  afternoon,  or  on  stormy  Sundays,  we 
put  the  chairs  in  the  nursery  in  rows  and  one  of  us 


1 62         Story  of  the  Author  s  Life 

would  preach  while  the  others  were  congregation 
or  choir.  This  was  the  nearest  we  ever  came  to 
appreciating  the  sermons  that  were  all  the  time 
being  made  down  in  the  study  just  below  us.  Dur 
ing  this  time  he  published  "The  Reality  of  Relig 
ion,  "The  Story  of  the  Psalms,"  "God  and  Little 
Children,"  and  "The  Poetry  of  Tennyson,"  besides 
many  magazine  articles.  The  sermons  we  liked 
best,  though,  were  the  Christmas  sermons,  which 
were  always  stories,  and  which  were  afterward  pub 
lished.  Among  them  were  "The  Other  Wise  Man," 
"The  Lost  Word,"  and  "The  First  Christmas-Tree." 

When  we  saw  his  books  coming  out  we  were  fired 
with  the  ambition  to  publish  books  too,  so  we  had 
a  "Book  Company"  which  he  encouraged  by  his 
patronage.  We  wrote  stories,  laboriously  printed 
them  with  pen  and  ink,  illustrated  them  in  water- 
colors,  and  bound  them  in  cardboard  and  colored 
paper.  We  soon  had  quite  a  library,  with  contri 
butions  from  all  the  family,  and  in  all  this  my  father 
was  our  wisest  friend  and  critic. 

So  the  making  of  books  was  a  reality  to  us,  and 
we  were  interested  not  only  in  the  writing,  but  in 
the  illustrations  and  binding.  I  remember  one 
afternoon  my  father  had  gone  out  in  a  hurry,  leav 
ing  his  study  in  great  disorder.  I  was  always  more 
fond  of  the  study  than  of  any  room  in  the  house, 
probably  because  entrance  was  forbidden  most  of 
the  time  when  he  was  working;  so  taking  advan 
tage  of  his  absence,  I  slid  in  and  found  the  floor 
covered  with  photographs  and  prints  and  piles  of 


From  a  Child's  Point  of  View     163 

books.  It  looked  like  a  veritable  workshop,  and  the 
disorder  delighted  my  heart';  so  I  spent  the  after 
noon  there,  and  finally  persuaded  myself  that  there 
would  be  nothing  wrong  in  taking  one  small  photo 
graph  of  the  Madonna  and  child,  which  I  especially 
liked,  if  I  put  it  back  soon.  I  remember  what  a 
time  I  had  returning  it  to  its  place  the  next  day, 
and  then  with  what  interest,  many  months  later,  I 
saw  the  picture  reproduced  on  one  of  the  pages  of 
the  "Christ  Child  in  Art"  which  came  out  in  1894. 
I  really  felt  that  I  had  had  a  part  in  the  making  of 
that  book. 

Of  the  making  of  rhymes,  too,  there  was  no  end. 
Sometimes  at  the  dinner-table  my  father  would  sit 
perfectly  quiet  for  ten  minutes,  apparently  wrapped 
in  thought,  while  we  chattered  and  discussed  the 
doings  of  the  morning  or  planned  for  the  afternoon ; 
and  then  if  we  stopped  for  a  moment  and  looked  at 
him  we  would  see  a  smile  dawning  on  his  face,  and 
a  new-made  nonsense  rhyme  was  recited  much  to 
our  delight.  We  often  tried  to  persuade  him  to 
write  a  book  for  children,  but  although  he  seemed 
to  have  plenty  of  time  to  make  it  up,  he  was  always 
too  busy  to  write  it  down. 

The  best  times  of  all,  though,  were  the  summer 
months,  when  we  left  the  hot,  dusty  city  and  went 
down  to  the  little  white  cottage  on  the  south  shore 
of  Long  Island.  Here  he  first  taught  us  the  gentle 
art  of  fishing,  and  how  well  I  remember  the  morn 
ings  he  spent  showing  us  how  to  catch  the  minnows 
for  bait  in  a  mosquito-net  (for  catching  the  bait 


164         Story  of  the  Author s  Life 

was  always  part  of  the  game),  and  then  how  he 
stood  with  us  for  hours  on  the  high  drawbridge 
across  the  channel,  showing  us  the  easy  little  twitch 
of  the  wrist  that  hooks  the  fish,  and  how  to  take 
him  off  the  hook  and  save  the  bait.  They  were  only 
young  bluefish,  or  little  "snappers,"  as  we  called 
them,  and  seldom  more  than  eight  inches  long,  but 
we  were  as  proud  as  though  they  were  salmon. 
Real  trout  we  had  never  caught,  though  we  had 
often  jumped  up  from  the  supper-table  and  run  to 
meet  him  when  he  came  in  after  dark  with  his  bas 
ket  full  of  wet,  shiny,  speckled  ones.  Then  how 
exciting  it  was  to  weigh  the  biggest  one  and  hear 
about  the  still  bigger  one  that  got  away.  That  was 
always  a  good  reason  for  going  back  the  next  day, 
and  sometimes,  if  we  had  been  very  good,  he  would 
take  one  or  two  of  us  up  under  the  bridge,  and  up 
the  narrow,  winding  stream,  till  we  came  to  where 
the  branches  interlaced  overhead  and  the  boat  would 
go  no  farther.  There  he  left  us  at  the  little  rustic 
bridge  and  waded  up  the  stream  above,  while  we 
sat  breathless  to  hear  his  halloo,  which  meant  he 
was  coming  back,  and  to  find  out  what  luck  he  had 
had  in  those  mysterious  mazes  above  the  bridge. 

Those  were  the  happiest  days  of  our  summer,  and, 
as  my  father  says,  it  was  the  stream  which  made 
them  so. 

But  these  were  only  day's  trips,  and  I  longed  for 
real  camping  out.  Every  fall  my  father  went  hun 
dreds  of  miles  away  up  to  Canada  where  there  were 
real  bears  and  wolves  in  the  woods  and  where  you 


From  a  Child's  Point  of  View     165 

travelled  for  days  without  seeing  a  house  or  a  per 
son.  I  had  often  heard  him  tell  his  experiences 
much  as  they  are  now  recorded  in  "Camping  Out" 
in  this  book.  Especially  did  we  become  interested 
in  the  French  guides,  whose  letters  to  him  I  read 
eagerly,  though  slowly,  for  they  were  written  in 
French. 

Finally,  to  my  earnest  entreaties,  there  came  a 
sort  of  half  promise  that  I  might  go  some  time 
when  I  was  bigger  and  stronger,  but  it  seemed  so 
indefinite  that  I  quite  despaired,  and  great  was  my 
surprise  and  joy  one  day  when  my  father  asked 
me  if  I  would  like  to  go  camping  that  very  day. 
The  tent  and  the  great  heavy  blankets  and  rubber 
sheets  were  taken  out  of  their  canvas  wrapping 
where  they  were  lying  waiting  for  the  fall  and 
Canada.  My  father  put  on  his  corduroys  and  home 
spun  and  his  old  weather-stained  gray  felt  hat,  with 
the  flies  stuck  all  around  the  band,  and  I  donned 
my  oldest  sailor  suit,  and  with  a  few  pots  and  pans, 
a  small  supply  of  provisions  which  the  family 
helped  us  get  together,  and  our  two  fishing-rods, 
we  were  ready  for  the  start.  We  took  the  long  trip 
(about  a  mile)  in  an  old  flat-bottomed  row-boat, 
and  my  mother  and  little  brothers  came  with  us  to 
see  us  settled.  Our  camping  ground  was  in  a  pine 
grove  near  a  small  inlet  to  the  salt-water  bay  on 
which  our  cottage  faced,  so  that,  although  the 
stream  was  blocked  with  weeds  and  stumps,  the 
easiest  way  to  get  there  was  by  water.  We  reached 
the  place  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  moored  the 


1 66        Story  of  the  Author  s  Life 

boat,  and  carried  the  tent  and  provisions  up  a  little 
hill  to  the  place  my  father  had  chosen.  It  seemed 
miles  and  miles  from  home,  and  very  wild.  We 
had  nothing  for  supper,  and  I  remember  wonder 
ing  whether  my  father  would  shoot  some  wild  ani 
mal  or  whether  we  would  catch  some  fish.  The 
latter  course  was  chosen,  much  to  my  disappoint 
ment,  and  after  the  tent  was  pitched,  the  provisions 
unpacked,  and  my  mother  and  brothers  had  left  us 
all  alone,  we  started  out  with  rods  and  tackle  to 
catch  our  supper.  Fortunately  the  fish  were  biting 
well,  and  with  my  rising  appetite  they  came  more 
and  more  frequently,  until  we  had  a  basketful. 
Then  we  had  to  stop  by  the  stream  to  prepare  them 
for  the  pan,  so  it  was  almost  dark  when  we  threaded 
our  way  back  through  the  deep  forest  of  pines  to 
the  little  white  tent.  But  we  soon  built  the  fire 
and  made  things  look  more  cheerful.  How  good 
the  fish  looked  as  they  sizzled  away  over  the  glow 
ing  fire,  and  they  tasted  even  better,  eaten  right 
out  of  the  same  pan  they  were  cooked  in.  That  was 
one  of  the  best  suppers  I  ever  recall  eating,  and 
surely  half  the  pleasure  came  from  the  comradeship 
of  a  father  who  shared  and  sympathized  with  my 
thoughts  and  entered  into  my  fun  with  the  spirits 
of  a  boy. 

It  was  an  experience  which  I  shall  never  forget, 
and  which,  like  most  of  the  delightful  "first"  things 
I  have  done,  I  shall  always  associate  with  my 
father.  For  he  was  our  guide  in  everything;  and 
besides  the  fishing  trips,  there  were  long  Sunday 


From  a  Child's  Point  of  View     167 

afternoon  walks  through  the  woods  and  a  growing 
acquaintance  with  the  songs  of  the  birds  arid  with 
the  wild  flowers.  He  made  us  listen  for  the  first 
notes  of  the  bluebird  in  spring  and  to  the  "Sweet — 
sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer"  of  the  song  spar 
rows  that  sang  in  the  lilac  hedge  around  our  cot 
tage.  It  was  there  that  he  wrote  "The  Song  Spar 
row"  and  a  good  many  of  the  poems  that  came  out 
later  in  a  book  called  "The  Builders  and  Other 
Poems."  But  my  first  realization  that  my  father 
was  a  poet  came  when  my  two  brothers  and  myself 
were  brought  down  here  to  Princeton  in  1896  to 
hear  him  read  the  ode  at  the  one  hundred  and 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  Princeton  College.  How 
proud  we  felt  to  be  the  only  children  in  that  grave 
assembly  of  gowned  and  hooded  scholars,  and  how 
fine  it  was  to  see  our  own  father  standing  there  on 
the  platform  and  reciting  the  ode  for  his  Alma 
Mater,  -the  college  we  had  cheered  for  and  whose 
colors  we  had  worn  through  defeat  or  victory  every 
spring  and  fall.  To  be  sure  we  were  interested  in 
Harvard  too,  because  he  had  often  been  elected 
preacher  to  the  university  there,  and  in  Yale,  be 
cause  he  had  been  Lyman  Beecher  Lecturer  there, 
and  in  other  colleges  where  he  had  received  aca 
demic  honors ;  but  we  were  ever  loyal  to  Princeton, 
where  he  and  our  grandfather  and  our  great-grand 
father  had  been  students. 

Our  Dutch  ancestry  was  brought  to  our  minds 
the  year  he  was  President  of  the  Holland  Society, 
and  our  Presbyterianism  emphasized  when  he  be- 


1 68        Story  of  the  Authors  Life 

came  Moderator  of  the  General  Assembly  of  that 
church  and  brought  home  a  fine  white  ivory  gavel 
which  some  Alaskan  mission  church  had  sent  to  him 
and  which  he  now  keeps  on  one  of  the  library  book 
cases.  Thus  in  all  his  work,  as  well  as  in  his  fish 
ing,  we  have  followed  him,  and  he  takes  us  into 
his  plans  and  tells  us  as  much  as  we  can  understand 
of  what  he  is  doing. 

In  1900  he  was  called  to  be  the  first  occupant  of 
the  Murray  chair  of  English  Literature  in  Prince 
ton  University,  and  we  now  have,  what  we  have 
always  wanted,  a  home  in  the  country.  Here, 
though  he  has  left  the  strain  and  rush  of  city  life, 
he  seems  busier  than  ever,  for  he  still  preaches  every 
Sunday,  usually  at  university  and  college  chapels, 
and  his  calendar  is  always  filled  with  lecture  en 
gagements  all  over  the  country.  Preacher,  poet, 
lecturer — his  professions  are  many,  though  his  aim 
is  one,  to  lift  the  world  up  and  make  it  a  better, 
happier  one  than  he  found  it. 

But  with  all  this  work  there  is  a  shelf  in  the 
library  at  Avalon  on  which  the  line  of  books  is 
steadily  increasing.  That  is  the  shelf  where  my 
father's  books,  each  one  of  which  he  has  especially 
bound  and  gives  to  my  mother,  are  kept.  Two  of 
the  latest  additions  to  this  shelf  are  the  books  of 
short  stories,  "The  Ruling  Passion"  and  "The  Blue 
Flower,"  and  I  think  we  have  been  more  interested 
in  the  making  of  these  two  than  in  any  others.  For 
we  have  seen  the  stories  grow  and  have  known  many 
of  the  characters  that  he  has  so  faithfully  drawn. 


From  a  Child's  Point  of  View     169 

The  scenes  of  some  are  laid  in  places  that  we  are 
very  familiar  with  and  many  of  the  incidents  have 
taken  place  before  our-  eyes.  My  father  keeps  a 
small  black  leather  note-book,  one  that  would  fit  in 
a  jacket  pocket.  When  a  story  comes  to  him  he 
jots  down  a  word  or  two — a  phrase,  or  something 
that  suggests  what  is  in  his  mind  and  would  call 
up  the  same  train  of  thought — then  puts  the  note 
book  away  till  he  has  had  time  to  think  the  story 
out  in  full,  or,  more  often,  until  he  has  time  to  write 
it  down.  Sometimes  it  is  only  a  catchword,  some 
times  half  a  page,  but  he  always  seems  to  have 
two  or  three  stories  ahead  of  him  waiting  to  be 
written. 

About  three  summers  ago  there  were  so  many 
stories  on  this  waiting-list  that  my  father  knew  they 
would  give  him  no  peace  of  mind  until  written  down 
in  black  and  white.  We  were  spending  that  sum 
mer  on  an  island  off  the  coast  of  Massachusetts,  and 
our  little  cottage  was  in  the  midst  of  all  the  merry 
making,  near  the  ocean,  and  facing  a  field  where 
all  sizes  of  boys  played  base-ball  every  afternoon. 
It  was  not  at  all  an  atmosphere  for  writing,  so  my 
father,  on  one  of  his  walks  of  discovery  to  the  mid 
dle  of  the  island,  found  an  old  deserted  farm-house 
standing  back  from  the  road  on  a  little  rise  of 
ground.  There  were  apple-trees  around  it  and  a 
grape-vine  straggling  over  the  trellised  porch,  and 
from  the  window  of  what  once  was  probably  the 
sitting-room  there  was  a  tiny  glimpse  of  the  blue 
sea  far  away  in  the  distance.  No  discordant  sounds 


170        Story  of  the  Author  s  Life 

reached  this  quiet  spot,  and  here  my  father  spent  a 
good  part  of  the  summer  writing  a  great  many  of 
the  stories  in  "The  Blue  Flower."  He  would  go 
out  to  his  farm-house  study  every  morning,  return 
ing  in  body,  though  not  in  spirit,  to  lunch,  and  then 
go  out  again  to  work  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 
As  soon  as  a  story  was  finished,  we  would  gather, 
after  supper,  around  the  lamp  and  he  would  read  it 
to  us.  What  a  delight  it  was  to  recognize  some  of 
our  old  friends  or  familiar  places,  or  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  new  and  even  better  ones.  We 
were  sorry  when  the  stories  were  all  finished  and 
the  book  had  gone  to  the  publisher. 

My  father's  latest  book  is  "Music,  and  Other 
Poems,"  and  most  of  these  were  written  here  in  his 
study  at  Avalon,  though  some  he  wrote  down  in 
Augusta,  Ga.,  where  he  spent  part  of  last  winter. 
The  "Ode  to  Music"  he  was  almost  two  years  in 
writing,  taking  up,  of  course,  other  things  in  the 
mean  time.  Several  days  ago  the  following  came  to 
my  father  from  James  Whitcomb  Riley : 

Music  !  yea,  and  the  airs  you  play — 

Out  of  the  faintest  Far-away 

And  the  sweetest,  too  ;  and  the  dearest  here, 

With  its  quavering  voice  but  its  bravest  cheer — 

The  prayer  that  aches  to  be  all  exprebsed — 

The  kiss  of  love  at  its  tenderest. 

Music — music  with  glad  heart-throbs 

Within  it ;  and  music  with  tears  and  sobs 

Shaking  it,  as  the  startled  soul 

Is  shaken  at  shriek  of  the  fife  and  roll 


From  a  Child's  Point  of  View    171 

Of  the  drums  ; — then  as  suddenly  lulled  again 

By  the  whisper  and  lisp  of  the  summer  rain. 

Mist  of  melodies,  fragrance  fine — 

The  bird -song-flicked  from  the  eglantine 

With  the  dews  where  the  springing  bramble  throws 

A  rarer  drench  on  its  ripest  rose, 

And  the  winged  song  soars  up  and  sinks 

To  a  dove's  dim  coo  by  the  river  brinks, 

Where  the  ripple's  voice  still  laughs  along 

Its  glittering  path  of  light  and  song. 

Music,  O  poet,  and  all  your  own 

By  right  of  capture,  and  that  alone — 

For  in  it  we  hear  the  harmony 

Born  of  the  earth  and  the  air  and  the  sea, 

And  over  and  under  it,  and  all  through, 

We  catch  the  chime  of  the  Anthem,  too. 


But  in  spite  of  his  many  duties  he  still  finds  time 
to  fish,  and  since  we  have  lived  here  he  has  taken 
me  on  a  real  camping  trip  in  Canada  and  taught 
me  to  catch  real  salmon,  as  well  as  showing  me  the 
scenes  of  a  good  many  of  his  stories  in  "The  Ruling 
Passion."  So  now  I  know  what  real  fisherman's 
luck  is,  for  though  "we  sometimes  caught  plenty 
and  sometimes  few,  we  never  came  back  without  a 
good  catch  of  happiness,"  and  my  father  has  taught 
me  the  real  meaning  of  the  last  stanza  of  "The 
Angler's  Reveille" : 

Then  come,  my  friend,  forget  your  foes  and  leave  your  fears 

behind, 
And  wander  out  to  try  your  luck  with  cheerful,  quiet  mind  ; 


172         Story  of  the  Authors  Life 

For  be  your  fortune  great  or  small,  you'll  take  what  God  may 

give, 
And  through  the  day  your  heart  shall  say, 

'Tis  luck  enough  to  live. 

BROOKE  VAN  DYKE. 

Avalon,  Princeton,  N.  J., 
January  21,  1905. 


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CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

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